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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382040">on the earth, on sidewalks</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/morian/pseuds/morian'>morian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Friends to Lovers, Kind of a road trip fic, M/M, Pining, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, can you still call it a gap year if you're 40 years old?, middle aged men backpacking, mike/bill is a background relationship but talked about enough that i thought i'd tag it, the rituals aren't even intricate, these guys are just dumb as hell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:55:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>112,296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/morian/pseuds/morian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can’t go to Europe,” Mike says, like ripping off a bandaid.</p><p>Richie momentarily considers dropping his phone in the tub to kill it, and then he remembers that it is 2017 and phones are like, waterproof now. Steve Jobs might be dead, but Richie curses him regardless.</p><p>“What the fuck, man?” he says, a little too high pitched. “Is it you Bill is divorcing? Are you his lawyer? How are these two related in any way? You can’t just—”</p><p>“Bill needs me, Richie.” Mike’s voice is gentle but firm, like that makes any sense.</p><p>“Dude, what am I going to do for 3 months? I’ve got no gigs coming up, no media appearances. Everything's on hold.”</p><p>A pause. Then Mike says, “What are you talking about, man? Eddie is still going.”</p><p> </p><p>OR </p><p>Richie and Eddie try to collectively figure out their shit. In Europe!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>829</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Chapter specific content warnings</p><p>The word ‘f*ggot’ is mentioned very briefly, in reference to past homophobia Richie experienced. Also mentions of homophobic violence (same context) in line with canon material. Mentions of past drug use.</p><p> <br/>The chapter number is an estimate for now and the rating is going to go up eventually. </p><p>Title from Bertolt Brecht's 'The Good Person of Szechwan'. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>They say when you’re in love you walk on clouds but in fact what’s really wonderful is that you walk on the earth, on sidewalks.</i></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie is in the bathtub when his phone rings. Taking baths is something he does now, with fancy soaps and glittery bath bombs that swirl in the warm water around him as they fizzle and expand. He watches reality TV while in the tub, yelling at the Love Island contestants making bad decisions and starting stupid fights with each other. He sits there until the water gets cold and the skin of his fingertips shrivels up to the point that his phone doesn’t recognise his fingerprint when he tries to unlock it afterwards. Privately he calls it ‘embracing the gay lifestyle’ (which is probably offensive on several levels but he is gay – yeah, he’s gay, what of it – and so he can say shit like that). On the phone with Bev he calls it ‘self-care, baby’, since he hasn’t actually managed to come out to anybody. A few weeks later she sent him a package containing a collection of LUSH bath bombs and a suction mount for his iPad so that he can attach it to the wall rather than precariously propping it up on a chair next to the tub like some maniac. </p><p>He struggles to answer the call with damp fingers. </p><p>“Mikey!” he says cheerfully, his voice a little hoarse from disuse after hermitting for two days. By choice, obviously. </p><p>“Hey, man.” Mike sounds tired and serious. </p><p>“How is my favourite travel buddy?” Richie absentmindedly splashes the water with his free hand. </p><p>“I won’t tell Eddie that you said that,” Mike laughs. It is short-lived as he seems to remember whatever it is he is calling about. “Listen, Richie…” </p><p>Richie sits up a little in the tub. Serious phone calls from Mike have only ever led to bad things, and he doesn’t believe the universe will break that track record now. </p><p>“Are you in the bath right now?” Mike asks. </p><p>“Yeah, man! It’s a busy day at La Casa Tozier. I’ve got like, e-mails to read and stuff. No better place to do it.” </p><p>Mike doesn’t laugh. He is quiet for a little while. </p><p>“Bill called me last night,” he says eventually. </p><p>Richie’s fingers twitch, looking for something to fidget with. “Yeah? How is our dear Billiam?” </p><p>“He is getting divorced,” Mike says, rushed. Like he didn’t mean to say it like that. </p><p>“What?” Richie stops moving his hand through the water. </p><p>“Him and Audra, they… well. I’m sure he'll tell you himself.” </p><p>It isn’t as though Richie is surprised by this news. He knows just as well as any of the Losers that things have been difficult between the two, and they had been for a while. Richie has spent enough evenings with Bill getting progressively more drunk on his couch, telling him about some fight they had through hiccups, to know that this was going to happen one way or another. </p><p>What confuses him is not the divorce, but the fact that it is Mike telling him and not Bill. They live in the same city and everything. He saw him for breakfast just over a week ago. In fact, they had vague plans to go for lunch tomorrow. </p><p>“Not that I don’t appreciate hearing your lovely voice whenever you deign to contact lil’ old me, but shouldn’t I be speaking to Bill right now?” Richie says. </p><p>“There’s more to this,” Mike says and well, doesn’t that just sound ominous. </p><p>“... Okay? You’ve got me hooked.” </p><p>“I can’t go to Europe,” Mike says, like ripping off a bandaid. </p><p>Richie momentarily considers dropping his phone in the tub to kill it, and then he remembers that it is 2017 and phones are like, waterproof now. Steve Jobs might be dead, but Richie curses him regardless. </p><p>“What the fuck, man?” he says, a little too high pitched. “Is it you Bill is divorcing? Are you his lawyer? How are these two related in any way? You can’t just—” </p><p>“Bill needs me, Richie.” Mike’s voice is gentle but firm, like that makes any sense. </p><p>“Why does he need <i>you</i>, specifically? Is this some kind of martyr complex? I get that out of the two of us you are probably more qualified to help him with this, but there are like... therapists.” Richie frowns at the rubber duck floating along in the tub as he speaks. He pushes it down, drowning it. Then he lets it pop back up because he isn’t actually a serial killer in the making. “Bill has other friends, unlike some of us. Hell, Ben and Bev are rich as fuck and could probably afford to take a few weeks off to hold Bill’s hand through this.” </p><p>On the other end of the line Mike sighs. “Things are… different with me and Bill.” </p><p>Richie lets that hang between them. He turns the sentence over in his head, inspecting it from all angles to see if it might make sense in another light. </p><p>“Different how?” he finally asks. </p><p>Silence stretches out for a long moment, so long it makes his palms itch. Then Mike exhales loudly. </p><p>“I’m not sure how to explain it properly over the phone. Everything is still a bit unclear right now.” </p><p>“Yeah, no shit, Mike!” </p><p>“I’m going to LA on Tuesday to stay with him for a while. I’m really sorry it’s such short notice.” </p><p>Richie lets his head drop backwards and stares at the white ceiling above. </p><p>“Dude, what am I going to do for 3 months? I’ve got no gigs coming up, no media appearances. Everything's on hold.” </p><p>A pause. Then Mike says, “What are you talking about, man? Eddie is still going.” </p><p>And well, the thing is that Mike was meant to act as the buffer between him and Eddie. That was the entire reason Richie hadn’t pulled out when he found out that the only other Loser going was Eddie. Because spending three months with him, alone, sharing rooms and a car and bumping shoulders as they walked through some European city, Eddie sunburnt, wearing shorts, and complaining all the way, would be the guaranteed ruin of their friendship. Richie would ruin their friendship so good, and they would call the whole thing off after a week and go home, and they wouldn’t speak for a few months until maybe Eddie would check in on him and ask if things were cool between them, and Richie would send him a finger guns emoji and he would say yeah, everything was cool, and then things would keep being weird for a few years until maybe Richie settled for some guy named Josh or Andy or Dylan, who looked nothing like Eddie and who didn’t call him out on his bullshit like Eddie did, and then Eddie would breathe a sigh of relief knowing that Richie had gotten over him and things could go back to normal. And they would laugh about it a few years later, and Richie would go home to cry in the bathtub with a glass of wine like a depressed mother of four trying to cope with the fact her husband is a piece of shit. </p><p>Richie has worked hard to package his resurfaced feelings for Eddie fucking Kaspbrak into a neat little box in his head labelled ‘DANGER - DO NOT TOUCH’ and spends every day of his miserable life trying not to text Eddie, not to pine over him, not to let it get out of hand, not to fantasise about holding his hand like he did in middle school. </p><p>“Mike, I… Fuck, man,” he says, finally. “You know things are weird between me and Eddie.” </p><p>“Are they?” Mike asks. “Richie, I don’t think anyone thinks that but you.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t know!” </p><p>“I don’t think it’s as complicated as you are making it out to be. You don’t know everything,” he says. Cryptic bastard.</p><p>“I’m gonna go now,” Richie says. </p><p>“Okay. But Richie, don’t cancel the trip. Don't waste this.” </p><p>“Yeah, whatever,” he says and hangs up. He instantly feels like a little bitch for it. </p><p>He sends Mike a text saying ‘sorry for being a little bitch’. </p><p>Mike texts back ‘¯\_(ツ)_/¯’ and nothing else. </p><p> </p><p>Richie spends an hour nervously pacing the length of his living room. His hair is almost dry by the time he finally works up the nerve to call Eddie. As soon as his phone is in his hand a wave of nausea hits him like a freight train and he has to sit down on the edge of his ugly, fire engine red couch. </p><p>He gives himself some time to breathe, in and out, and counts to 100 in his head. Then he picks up his phone again. </p><p>He stares at it for a moment and then shoves it into the gap between couch pillows and goes to hide in his bedroom for a while. </p><p>What would he even say? Would Eddie still want to go if it was just the two of them? As far as Richie is aware, Eddie didn’t know that Richie was coming when he agreed to go on this trip. The majority of the planning went through Mike. They had a group chat – the three of them –  that Mike made back in February and Richie (hilariously) named ‘Gap Year Boyz’. Most of the chat consisted of Mike sending them links to Time Out articles and AirBnB listings, as well as the occasional ‘Can’t wait for this trip, guys!’. Yeah, right. One word from Bill and suddenly Mike is channeling that enthusiasm into whatever the hell their deal is. </p><p>The group chat’s photo is a generic tourist photo of three white women in front of the Eiffel Tower but Richie had (also hilariously) replaced their faces with badly cut out pictures of Eddie, Mike and himself. He laughs now, hysterically, as he thinks of just him and Eddie in Paris, eating croissants and drinking red wine underneath the moonlit Eiffel Tower on a mild summer’s evening. He wants to die. Because that is what will happen without Mike there. Richie will try to woo Eddie – a 40 year old straight man – with roses and sweet, buttery French pastries in the city of love. </p><p>He can’t go on this trip. He cannot go on a summer road trip through Europe with the only man who has ever made him crazy. The man whose bedside he sat by for a month in Derry, whispering gross, love-sick things and holding his hand like a prayer in the silent hospital room as he waited for him to wake up. The only man who has ever made him well and truly stupid. And Richie was not a smart man to begin with. He is fucked. </p><p> </p><p>Somehow, he manages to trick his body into taking a panic nap by getting so worked up it simply shuts down on him. He wakes up three hours later, disoriented and with a mouth dryer than the Californian desert. He drags himself out of bed with great difficulty. At least four of his joints pop audibly. </p><p>When he finally digs up his phone from between the couch cushions after going for a piss and then gulping down half a liter of water from his fancy fridge water dispenser, he finds that he has 3 missed calls and several texts from Eddie, the Losers chat, and the Gap Year Boyz chat. His eye twitches. </p><p>He sits down on the couch and opens the Losers chat first because it seems like the safest option. </p><p> </p><p>[From: ginger nut	3:08pm]<br/>
<em>Watch this! LOL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-zyhRIGdBTw</em> </p><p>[From: Big Bill 		3:14pm]<br/>
<em>So funny…… Love it, Bev….. [laughing emoji] </em></p><p>[From: january embers 	3:16]<br/>
<em>Ha ha! [laughing emoji] Miss you, Bill [purple heart emoji]</em></p><p> </p><p>Richie has a brief crisis about his age as he is once more confronted with the fact that his friends are middle aged and uncool. He doesn’t click the link, and instead he moves on to the Gap Year Boyz chat. </p><p> </p><p>[From: Hot Single Librarians In Your Area 	2:16pm]<br/>
<em>Hey guys, I’ve sent you over all the booking confirmations and documents, check your email. </em></p><p>[From: Hot Single Librarians In Your Area 	2:17pm]<br/>
<em>@Eddie, you got the rental car details?</em> </p><p>[From: eddie kASSpbrak 	2:28pm]<br/>
<em>Of course. Thanks, Mike.</em> </p><p>[From: Hot Single Librarians In Your Area 	2:33pm]<br/>
<em>Great. Sorry again for the last minute cancellation. I’ll make it up to you guys somehow! </em></p><p>[From: eddie kASSpbrak	2:40pm]<br/>
<em>It’s okay, Mike. </em></p><p>[From: eddie kASSpbrak	2:42pm]<br/>
<em>I’ll try to come to LA at some point to see you and Bill.</em> </p><p> </p><p>Finally, Richie checks his private chat with Eddie. </p><p> </p><p>[From: Eddie 		2:03pm]<br/>
<em>Just got off the phone with Mike.</em> </p><p>[From: Eddie 		2:08pm]<br/>
<em>Hey asshole, call me back.</em> </p><p>[From: Eddie 		3:29pm]<br/>
<em>I know for a fact that you live like a college student and have nothing going on at this time of day.</em> </p><p>[From: Eddie 		4:12pm]<br/>
<em>Dickhead. </em></p><p> </p><p>Richie checks the time. It is 4:48pm. He rubs a hand over his face and dials Eddie’s number before he can change his mind. </p><p>Eddie picks up after the second ring. He sounds out of breath.</p><p>“Richie,” he says and then nothing else. Richie can hear him faintly gasping for air but it sounds like he is holding the phone away from his face. </p><p>“Hola amigo,” Richie says. “Did I interrupt something?” </p><p>“What?” Eddie asks. </p><p>“You sound a little winded, buckaroo.” </p><p>“Oh, right.” There’s a pause. “I’m just on a run.” </p><p>Richie imagines him then, drenched in sweat and red in the face. Realistically he knows that there is no way in hell, but his brain still unhelpfully supplies him with the image of him in the stupid, red running shorts he wore when they were kids. </p><p>“Ah, right,” he says, slightly delayed. “Sorry, I was busy with the mixed gender orgy I hold every Saturday between 2pm and…” He checks the kitchen clock. “4:45pm. We just finished. That’s why I didn’t pick up the phone.” </p><p>Miraculously, Eddie huffs out a laugh despite the fact that not even Richie thought that one was funny. </p><p>“Sorry to interrupt,” Eddie says. </p><p>There is a moment of silence as Richie tries to think of how to broach the topic of— well, the obvious. </p><p>And then he says, “Listen, man, we don’t—” at the same time as Eddie says, “What time does—” </p><p>They both stop. </p><p>“You go first,” Richie says and cringes. </p><p>“What time does your flight get in on Thursday?” Eddie asks. </p><p>Richie makes a strangled sound.</p><p>“Uh, 5pm, I think? But Eddie...” He pauses. “I just mean, we don’t have to go.” </p><p>A beat. Then, “What the fuck, asshole?” </p><p>Richie throws his free hand up defensively, even though Eddie can’t see him. He opens his mouth to speak but Eddie has already kicked off and there is no stopping that particular avalanche. </p><p>“— you want to call off the entire thing just because Mike can’t go? You think it’s going to suck without him there? Jesus, Richie, you think we can’t have fucking fun without someone else there as our… our <i>fluffer</i>? I’ve taken three months off work for this shit, they’ve already hired a temp to cover me, some dude called Dave is moving into my apartment next weekend, and most of my shit is in storage. What do you want me to do, live in a hotel for three months like some fucking rich business man who cheated on his wife and got kicked out of the house but swears it’s only temporary? Fuck off!” </p><p>Richie can hear him breathing heavily down the phone just like he had when he first picked up. He sounds like he just ran a marathon. He swears that Eddie didn’t use to get winded this quickly. They must really be getting old. </p><p>“Didn’t you live in a hotel room for like a month after you left your wife?” Richie asks. </p><p>“Richard, I will literally kill you.” </p><p>“Yes, please.” Richie laughs. “Are you done?” </p><p>“That depends, are you going to stop being a dickhead?” </p><p>“Probably not. But let’s pretend for a sec.” At some point during Eddie’s speech he got up from the couch. He is now back to pacing the living room. “I’m not worried that we won’t have a good time, man.” </p><p>“Then what’s your problem?” </p><p>“I just thought you might not want to go with just me. This was yours and Mike’s thing first.” Richie walks into the kitchen, nervous energy plucking at him like he is a tightly wound guitar string. “I know you and him have been tight since the clown shit, and I just thought you might not want to… go without him,” he finishes lamely. </p><p>“Richie, this has been the only thing keeping me going since February,” Eddie says and Richie furrows his brows. </p><p>“That’s kind of tragic, dude,” he says. You know, like an asshole.</p><p>“Yeah, well, you try going through a life altering injury and a divorce within the span of a few months and let me know how fucking cheery you feel then,” Eddie snaps. “We are going on this trip. I’m picking you up at the airport on Thursday.” </p><p>Richie looks out of the kitchen window at the courtyard outside his apartment block. The elderly Indian woman from down the hall is walking her ridiculously tiny dog in the sweltering LA sun. He feels the ghost of a smile on his lips. </p><p>“Okay,” he says to Eddie. </p><p>“Okay,” Eddie says. </p><p>Richie thinks of his empty suitcase sitting on the floor besides his bed. He thinks about packing, and how he still needs to message Bill about lunch tomorrow so they can catch up before he goes, and how he needs to buy new earphones for the flight because he ruined his old ones by washing them accidentally. And suddenly, cautiously, excitement blossoms in the pit of his stomach, replacing the dread. </p><p>“I’ll see you on Thursday, Eds,” he says. </p><p>“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, no bite to it. “I have to call the car rental company and amend the booking so it’s under my name instead of Mike’s.” </p><p>Richie hums and opens the fridge. It is mostly empty save for a 2-liter bottle of Coke Zero, some leftover Chinese takeaway from two nights ago, and a Tupperware container full of food he doesn't even remember making but he is too afraid of the smell to try and find out what's inside. He imagines what Eddie would say if he saw the state of it. Probably something about MSG and carcinogenic chemicals and how Coke Zero isn’t actually any better for you than regular Coke, and the acids in soda erode your enamel, Richie, wasn’t your dad a fucking dentist? </p><p>The real Eddie is also ranting in his ear, going on about AirBnB bookings and travel insurance. Richie knows he should listen but his thoughts drift back to running shorts and Eddie’s flushed face, and he lets himself have that for a moment. Because they’re going to Europe together. For three months. And that means Eddie in shorts, Eddie flushed and hot, Eddie in swimming trunks with his pinched face covered in sunscreen, and if Richie can’t handle fantasy Eddie then he might as well cancel his flights now because he sure as hell won’t be able to handle the real deal. </p><p>He takes the bottle of coke, opens it with one hand (a struggle) and takes a swig. It’s flat. He takes another sip anyway, suddenly thirsty. </p><p>“Hey man, I gotta go,” he says, interrupting Eddie’s stream of consciousness. </p><p>“— oh, right. The orgy,” Eddie says dryly. </p><p>Richie snorts. “Yeah, I gotta clean up after all that steamy sex in my living room.” </p><p>“Your living room? That’s so fucking unhygienic,” Eddie complains. </p><p>Richie imagines his nose wrinkling in disgust. It’s cute. “Chill, Eduardo, my couch hasn’t seen any action in like two years,” he says. “Me and Sonia usually do it in the kitchen nowadays, so—” </p><p>Eddie hangs up. Richie laughs alone in his kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>Richie meets Bill the next day at their usual lunch spot, a small, family-run deli that serves the best hummus in town and is reasonably close to both of their apartments. </p><p>Bill arrives ten minutes late and frazzled, looking like a bit of a mess. It’s a refreshing role reversal. </p><p>“I’m sorry I’m late, I got caught up—” </p><p>“Hey, no excuses needed. I get it,” Richie says and he gets up to give him a hug. Because he does that now; he hugs people. He has people who want to hug him, too. And he can touch men  in platonic ways because he understands the difference, the way Bill has never been, and will never be what Eddie is to him. They’re friends. Richie Tozier has friends now. Friends who aren’t just thinly veiled networking opportunities. </p><p>Bill slumps into the seat across from him with a big sigh. </p><p>“You look like shit,” Richie says, and he does. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. </p><p>“Charming,” Bill says. His eyes crinkle as he smiles weakly. “I know I do, I have mirrors in my house. I even looked in one this morning.” </p><p>Richie takes a sip of his beer – ‘day-drinking, really?’ Eddie says in his head and wow, he really doesn’t have time to unpack that – and he gives Bill a sympathetic nod. </p><p>“I hear Mike is coming to visit you tomorrow,” he says, aiming for nonchalance and ending up somewhere a lot closer to ‘tense’. </p><p>Bill buries his face in his hands and says, muffled, “Fuck, Richie, this is such a mess.” </p><p>Richie reaches over to give him a quick pat on the head. </p><p>“Hey now, it sounds like things are going to get better from here on out,” he says. He is shit at this, at feelings, at comforting people. Especially when it comes to romantic relationships he always feels like he is severely under qualified to give any sort of advice, having never had a single successful dating experience in his life. </p><p>Bill lifts his head again after a minute and scratches his chin. Richie wants to reach out again and grab him by the shoulder, shake him until the explanation he is dying for comes tumbling out of him. Different how, he thinks, a little frantic. Things are different between you and Mike? How? Like they are different between Ben and Bev? Like ‘I am leaving my spouse for you’ different? Like two men who are not just friends but more than that, who are in love and who fuck? Different like that? </p><p>He doesn’t ask. Instead, he listens to Bill talk about how things between him and Audra have been falling apart for a long time, since before Derry, and how she deserves better than him anyway. And he talks about what his therapist said, how he can’t keep trying to fix something out of his control. He shouldn’t keep clinging to something that he has outgrown, or that has outgrown him. </p><p>All of Richie’s friends are in therapy now. That is what well-adjusted adults do when they survive severely fucked up events and relive their childhood trauma in the same weekend. Bev and Eddie were the first to get on board the therapist train and soon they started dropping words like ‘unhealthy coping mechanism’ and ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’ in the group chat. </p><p>Bill was next and within weeks of his first appointment he was at this very deli telling Richie that he had to acknowledge and engage with his fears in order to overcome them. Personally, he thinks that facing and killing an evil alien clown for the second time in his life was enough ‘engaging with his fears’ until he was at least sixty years old, and he told Bill as much back then. Bill had sighed and said ‘Not all fears are that literal, man’ and Richie didn’t know what to do with that so they dropped it. </p><p>Richie doesn’t think he needs therapy. He doesn’t need to sit down and explain his deepest insecurities to some woman named Lisa who has immaculately painted blue nails, dangly gold earrings and a kind and patient smile, who says things like ‘And how does that make you feel, Richard?’ and ‘Maybe recreational drug use gives you a sense of control over your circumstances that you don’t otherwise feel; it gives you a choice’. </p><p>What he needs is long baths, 60 episodes of British reality TV, and to have meaningless sex with some guy who looks nothing like Eddie. </p><p>“I think Mike is going to stay for a while,” Bill says. </p><p>Richie blinks. “That’s good,” he says after a moment. </p><p>“Yeah, it is.” </p><p>“You shouldn’t go through this alone, my dude,” he says after a moment of struggling to come up with something to say. </p><p>Bill picks at the last bit of lettuce garnish left on his plate. At some point over the course of the last hour they have both had two beers, a grilled cheese each, and a plate of hummus and marinated olives between them. </p><p>“I think he might move in with me,” he says after a moment and his eyes are fond. </p><p>Richie’s mouth is dry. He takes a sip of his beer.</p><p>“Yeah?” he says dumbly. “Like, into your one bedroom apartment?” </p><p>Bill tilts his head to one side and looks at Richie intently, like he is trying to figure something out. </p><p>“Yes,” he says. “We’re going to see how it goes. But the past few months, things have changed. It’s different now, I think. More than it was before.” </p><p>There it is, then. There is the answer Richie so frantically wanted earlier. He swallows thickly and finishes his beer. His world view feels a little shaken, like maybe when he walks out of this deli there might be two suns above him in the sky instead of just the one. </p><p>“Cool,” he says, voice strained. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he interlocks his fingers in front of himself on the table. He thinks of Eddie, all the way in New York City, and his palms itch. </p><p>“You okay, Richie?” Bill asks. Nothing but kind concern in his eyes, in the lines of his furrowed brows. </p><p>“Yeah, man,” he says and tries to smile. “Looks like soon it’ll just be me and Eddie in the Losers club, since the rest of you are moving on to greener pastures.” He sounds a little hysterical, even to his own ears. </p><p>Bill gives him a reassuring smile. Of course he does. </p><p>“I haven’t told Ben and Bev yet,” he says. “About me being bisexual, and the whole thing with me and Mike.” </p><p>Richie nods. The word bisexual flutters around inside his chest like an injured bird. Bill just came out to him and Richie said ‘cool’ like an asshole. He hasn’t said anything at all of value. </p><p>“Mike has talked to Eddie about it already, so he’s known for a while,” Bill continues. </p><p>“How did he take it?” Richie asks without thinking, and instantly wants to put the words back where they came from. What a stupid question. </p><p>Bill laughs, a little taken aback. “He’s fine with it, obviously,” he says. “Our friends aren’t bigots, man.” </p><p>He knocks Richie’s foot underneath the table. </p><p>“Course,” Richie mumbles. And then, “How long have you known?”</p><p>“That I’m bi, or that I like Mike?” </p><p>“Both, I guess.” </p><p>Bill hums. “There was a guy I liked back in college. Nothing ever happened, I think he was straight, but I guess that was when I knew.” He shrugs, like that is nothing. Like a boy can just like another boy in college and not think anything of it. Like they didn’t grow up in a backwater, homophobic town where two gay men were murdered literally last year. Like Richie didn’t spend his teenage years with the word ‘faggot’ practically engraved in the skin of his forehead. </p><p>“And Mike, well, that just kind of happened,” Bill goes on. “He was there for me after Derry last year. Helped me figure my shit out. We started talking a lot more and things just kind of clicked.” </p><p>Richie nods, like he gets it. Like he understands how easy it was. </p><p>The waitress, Claire, comes over to clear their empty plates and he orders another beer. They sit in silence while he tries desperately to find the words, any words. </p><p>Claire brings his beer and he takes a sip. He thinks about Connor Bowers at the arcade, and he thinks about Mateo, the bartender at the place Richie started doing stand-up in Chicago. He thinks about Trevor who used to come over sometimes to do cocaine with Richie and who fucked him on the fire engine red couch, pulling his hair and calling him ‘baby’. </p><p>But most of all he thinks about Eddie, and his fanny pack, and his spitfire mouth, and his red running shorts. Eddie, who threw a spear into ITs gaping, awful mouth to save Richie from the deadlights and got skewered as a result. </p><p>“I’m gay,” he says abruptly, before he can change his mind. He breaks out into a cold sweat and stares down at the table, waiting for— well, for something. He has no idea what. </p><p>“Oh man,” Bill says, and when Richie finally looks up he is smiling at him. “Good for you, Richie. Thank you for telling me.” And he reaches over and grabs his hand, squeezing it gently. </p><p>And that is it. Bill doesn’t expect anything else from him. He doesn’t ask who else knows, he doesn’t say that he already knew even though he must have, given the sheer force with which Richie projects his entire <i>thing</i> everywhere, and the sheer loudness of his stupid crush on Eddie. </p><p>But Bill says nothing like that, he just squeezes his hand and asks about how Richie has been, how he is getting on with packing, and what city he is most excited for in Europe. They hug when they say goodbye, and Richie promises to go for a drink with him and Mike on Wednesday before his flight, and that is truly it. </p><p> </p><p>Despite thinking about little else for the next two days, Richie leaves packing to the last minute. He is half an hour late to drinks with Mike and Bill because he is frantically looking for his passport which he eventually finds at the bottom of his kitchen drawer otherwise containing nothing but fancy cutlery his mom gave him when he moved out and beer bottle caps that he thought were too cool to throw away. Sometimes it is hard being a 40 year old man who never mentally progressed past college. </p><p>He gives Mike a massive hug when he sees him. Bill gets a hug too, but slightly less enthusiastic because he saw him two days ago, whereas he hasn’t seen Mike since Derry. They spend most of the evening catching up, with Mike telling Richie about getting hit on by retired women in Florida, his trip to the Bahamas, and hitchhiking to Mexico. Richie doesn’t have much to update him on, but he manages to spin some parts of his miserable life the past few months into vaguely entertaining stories that have Bill and Mike in stitches. </p><p>A good chunk of the evening is also dedicated to Mike apologising for not being able to go to Europe, and Richie saying ‘It’s fine, honey pie, don’t worry’ in an increasingly more confusing accent. </p><p>At one point he returns from the bar to find them kissing and he promptly turns back to where he came from and spends a further ten minutes trying to strike up a conversation with the bartender, an older, bald man with face tattoos who clearly wants him dead. </p><p>He goes home that night feeling a little wobbly and wishing he wasn’t such a coward. He flops onto his bed and spends a few futile minutes trying to make a mental checklist of things he still needs to do in the morning before his flight. He sets 4 alarms (5am, 5:05am, 5:07am, 5:10am), texts Eddie, and passes out before he can muster up the energy to brush his teeth. </p><p> </p><p>Richie nearly misses his flight. He is running through the airport like a maniac at 7:45am to the sweet soundtrack of his name being called out over the airport speakers. He has just spent half an hour in an excruciatingly slow security queue and is fairly hungover, so he really isn’t in the mood for this 6 hour flight or for interacting with anyone. </p><p>When he makes it to the gate with 4 minutes until the scheduled take-off time, the Delta Airline employee at the boarding desk looks like she wants to strangle him. She checks his passport and boarding card, makes a snide remark about his stand-up being misogynistic, and then ushers him onto the plane. </p><p>He spends his flight wedged between a woman who is drafting increasingly sociopathic sounding emails to the HR department of her company about some guy named Jerry whose only crime seems to be parking in her spot one too many times, and a man with what looks like severe flight anxiety who pops more Xanax than strictly safe before take-off and is bouncing his leg like his life depends on it, who, despite the Xanax, takes two hours to finally fall asleep. It is annoying as hell but at least reading this woman’s emails as she drafts them and being mad about the dude’s bouncing leg distracts him from the tight feeling in his chest and the way his palms are sweating. </p><p>He hasn’t seen Eddie in person since they said goodbye outside the security queue at Bangor Airport. Richie’s flight that day wasn’t until 6pm, but he still insisted on driving Eddie to the airport for his 1pm flight. When the time came, he hugged Eddie gently, mindful of his injury, and allowed himself to rest his cheek on the top of Eddie’s head and breathe in the subtle scent of his shampoo. </p><p>Since that day back in September, two months after everything went down in Derry and a month after Eddie woke up from the coma, he had only seen him as a pixelated shape in the corner of his laptop screen during their occasional Losers Club video calls, or in photographs that Bev sent them when her and Ben were in New York. One night, drunk Richie set one of these photos as his phone background in a fit of madness and then passed out on his couch. The next morning he nearly spent a long moment staring dumbly at his phone when he unlocked it, a grinning Eddie staring back at him, holding a shirt up that said ‘Happily single ☐  taken ☐  divorced ☑️’. He left it as his wallpaper for the rest of the day, and then eventually realised how pathetic that was and changed it back to a picture of him and Bill recreating the Lady and the Tramp spaghetti moment at a Michelin star restaurant. </p><p>Seeing him in the flesh in just a few hours could either be completely fine, or ruin Richie’s life. He isn’t sure what to prepare himself for, how he could prepare himself for that, and just hopes his friendship instinct will take over and he won’t propose on the spot. Not for the first time that day, he wishes that Mike hadn’t cancelled, Bill’s divorce be damned. With Mike there, Richie could follow his script of interacting with his platonic childhood friend. If Mike hugged Eddie on arrival Richie would have done the same. If Mike went for the cool, casual handshake and shoulder clap, Richie would have done the same. If Mike joked with Eddie about his chest injury, Richie would have known that was cool to do. If Mike didn’t mention it at all out of consideration for his feelings, Richie wouldn’t have brought it up either. </p><p>Without Mike’s handy guidance on how to interact with someone you have strictly platonic feelings for and don’t want to bang Richie is going to be thrown directly onto a minefield where any wrong move could lead to his entire friendship with Eddie blowing up in his face. Once again, he fearfully thinks about his future boyfriend Josh-Andy-Dylan and their underwhelming romantic and sexual relationship.  </p><p>Maybe he should have just called this trip off. Take the coward’s way out, like he usually does. After what Eddie said on the phone on Sunday, he can at least pretend that he is going through with it for Eddie’s sake and not because he is lonely and misses him so much and wants desperately to spend three months with him. Not because he has nothing better to do. Not because he has been looking forward to this since the day Mike pitched the idea to him.</p><p>He manages to get a fitful two hours of sleep, head bent at an awkward angle so as to not accidentally drop it on Karen’s shoulder next to him. He isn’t sure his career could survive the lawsuit, if the sheer ferocity of her email drafts to HR are anything to go by. </p><p>Somewhere above Indiana he jerks awake and spends the rest of the flight trying to focus on an episode of How Did This Get Made, and not thinking about Eddie.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific content warnings: </p><p>Mentions of past drug use. Mentions of past graphic violence. </p><p>I have never been to New York City so I'm sorry if anything is wildly unrealistic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In the end, seeing Eddie again is not as scary as he expected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does spend ten minutes beforehand mentally preparing himself by pacing around the men’s bathroom in the baggage reclaim area and trying to do some breathing exercise he saw on Facebook once but can never get quite right. Eventually he gives up, feeling only moderately calm, and heads out to arrivals with his oversized duffle bag slung over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spots Eddie almost immediately. It isn’t very busy, and Richie feels like even if there were thousands of people waiting across the barriers he would have still been able to pick him out within seconds. Eddie is holding up a sign that says “WELCOME HOME FROM PRISON, RICHIE” in bold, black letters. Their eyes meet. For a moment they just grin at each other dopily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Richie is in front of him and Eddie lowers the sign, and he feels stupid for ever thinking about how to greet him because hugging Eddie feels like the most normal thing in the world. Even though his heart is pounding in his chest. Even though his duffle bag is digging awkwardly into his shoulder. Even though his knees feel a little weak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, man,” Richie says when they pull back. “Love the sign.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you made it,” Eddie says. “I was sure you were going to miss that flight when you texted me at 1am and managed to misspell four of the five words you sent me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie clutches his chest. “I’m pretty sure it was only three out of five,” he says. “I’m going to sue you for defamation of character.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t even know where to start with suing me, don’t try,” Eddie shoots back. “I know the law.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, unabashed. “Edward Kaspbrak – Knows The Law. Is that your LinkedIn description?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a LinkedIn account,” Eddie says which has to be a fucking lie. If anyone in their little club is an avid LinkedIn user it’s definitely Eddie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need a coffee,” Richie says. He makes a mental note to look him up on LinkedIn later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie picks up the sign where he dropped it on the floor during their hug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a Starbucks on the way out if you want it to be mediocre and overpriced,” he tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Title of your mom’s sex tape, right there.” Richie readjusts his duffle bag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re dead to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Richie gets himself a shitty, overpriced latte and buys Eddie a Venti Chocolate Chip Frappuccino with cream on top that he absolutely didn’t ask for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t drink this,” Eddie says as they walk over to the parking lot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be rude, Edward.” Richie smiles at him widely. “You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it’s coming from you, I will send that horse to the dentist for a check-up and a deep clean. Maybe even get it some braces.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Turns out, Eddie can drink it. And he does. Richie fully expected him to throw it into the nearest bin as they were walking but instead he slowly sips it over the course of the twenty minute drive, in between shouting at pedestrians, cyclists, and other drivers for any mild inconvenience, so that by the time they get to his apartment in Jackson Heights the massive plastic cup is empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, I got you that because I thought you would hate it. Didn’t realise you were a secret Frappuccino man,” Richie says as he hoists his duffle bag out of the trunk of Eddie’s bougie-ass Cadillac. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did hate it,” Eddie replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why did you drink the entire thing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need the sugar high to be able to deal with you, asswipe,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every day you break my heart, Ed-man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll rip it out and stomp on it if you don’t call me by my fucking name.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s apartment looks almost exactly how Richie imagined it would. It isn’t anything too fancy, and the hallway of the apartment block smells faintly of cabbage, but the kitchen counters are immaculately shiny and black, with an induction hob and a sleek fridge the size of a wardrobe, his dark leather couch looks like nothing has ever been spilled on it without immediately getting wiped and disinfected, the floor is polished wood and there is a flatscreen TV mounted to the wall that doesn’t even have any dust on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of his stuff is in storage, Eddie said, so consequently the apartment looks bare and impersonal. He tries to imagine it with more of Eddie in it – tries to picture photos on the walls and DVDs on the shelves in the living room. Wishes he could see it now, get more insight into the way he lives, what’s important to him. Despite how hopelessly he loves him, Richie thinks, maybe he doesn’t know Eddie all that well. This Eddie, grown up, standing in his living room with a deep scar on his cheek and a frown between his eyebrows, wearing a pale yellow T-shirt and chinos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a child, he knew Eddie like the pocket of his favourite coat, back when things were easier but felt somehow more enormous. Back then he spent hours upon hours lounging on Eddie’s bed, reading comics and talking shit, before they had to start hanging out at his house exclusively because Sonia Kaspbrak decided he wasn’t allowed to come over anymore when they were fifteen, for reasons Richie pretended not to understand. He memorised every freckle on his face and every cassette tape on the shelf by his desk, can still recall now all the VHS tapes in the box under his bed that he hid from his mother. He knew which Jelly Bean flavours he hated and that he liked pineapple on pizza. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Richie doesn’t even know what kind of music Eddie listens to. Maybe it just isn’t the kind of thing that comes up naturally in conversation between people who have theoretically known each other for decades. But then again, he knows that Mike loves true crime podcasts. He knows that Bev likes horror films and Bill plays Dungeons and Dragons once a month with the same people he has played it with since college, knows that Ben loves musicals and has seen The Phantom of the Opera live twelve times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Eddie, what kind of music do you listen to?” Richie asks abruptly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie, who is in the middle of pulling out the bottom of the couch to turn it into something resembling a bed, stops and straightens up. He turns to look at Richie, wary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a set up?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, man, I’m just asking,” Richie says and tries his best to sound sincere, something that he is famously bad at. “So I know what to download on Spotify before we get in that rental car.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie still looks suspicious. “I like Jazz,” he says finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? Is that it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I also like some pop,” Eddie continues and goes back to setting up the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie imagines Eddie listening to Britney Spears while on a run and has to actively fight the laugh bubbling up in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, Eds, you’re not giving me much to work with. Jazz and ‘some’ pop? What does that even mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie grunts as he struggles to pull out the couch all the way. “You wanna stop playing 20 questions for a second and help me make </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>bed, asshole?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When everything is set up, Richie sits down on his newly made bed and gets his phone out to mindlessly scroll through his Instagram feed. He only made his account a few months ago at the behest of his PR manager Zoey who wants him to post once a week to keep people aware of his general existence. He has just over 150,000 followers which absolutely baffles him every day seeing as all his posts are pictures of Bill doing weird shit and pictures of vaguely phallic objects he saw out and about. He only learned how to add stuff to his story two weeks ago when Bev explained it to him in very easy words over the phone and the only exciting thing he has done on the account is live stream his rewatch of RoboCop. Around 800 people tuned it, but most of them weren’t watching RoboCop at all and just kept trying to get him to do a Q&amp;A. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The saxophone intro of Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Run Away With Me’ interrupts his mindless scrolling. He looks up to find Eddie standing by the stereo and looking at him, phone in his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like this one,” Eddie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stares at him like he’s grown an extra limb.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You're stuck in my head, stuck in my heart, stuck in my body, body</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wanna go, get out of here, I'm sick of the party, party</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like Carly Rae Jepsen?” he asks and somehow the mental image of Eddie listening to Britney Spears doesn’t seem too far fetched anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd run away</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd run away with you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie opens his mouth, presumably to defend his music taste, but Richie continues, “I didn’t know you were a man of </span>
  <em>
    <span>culture, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Edward! To think that all this time I imagined you jamming out to Beethoven or whatever the fuck. I didn’t know you had such hidden depths.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lies down on the bed and stretches luxuriously, his foot moving in time with the music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I only listen to Beethoven in the bathtub,” Eddie replies and sits down gingerly in the green velvet armchair next to the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs. “Of course you do, old man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you. It’s relaxing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, you need to learn the difference between being relaxed and being bored.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are the person every single ‘millenials are ruining this thing’ article is talking about ,” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not even a millennial! I’m 40 years old,” Richie protests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s what makes it so fucking embarrassing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For dinner, they get takeaway from ‘the best pizza joint this side of the Hudson’, as Eddie says, which Richie has to admit is pretty fucking delicious. They take turns playing music on the stereo, with him mainly using it to put on musical soundtracks to piss Eddie off until Eddie cracks and announces a blanket ban on any Broadway or Broadway adjacent songs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, their music tastes have a decent amount of overlap when Richie isn’t trying to antagonise him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aside from Miss Jepsen, they both like Lizzo, Fleetwood Mac, Bowie, Duran Duran, Queen, and the Pet Shop Boys. At least that is the list as far as they get that night. Eddie tries to put on Bruce Springsteen at one point and Richie wrestles his phone out of his hands to skip the song. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie plays one too many ABBA songs and Eddie decides to put a blanket ban on that as well, although he reckons that by the end of these next three months he will have changed his mind on that one through sheer force of will.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie plays some jazz which Richie doesn’t have much of an opinion on but enjoys listening to, particularly when Eddie is telling him about the people behind it. Of course he gives him grief for it because how could he not, calling him a wannabe for being a white jazz nerd, but mostly he just likes hearing him speak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he lies in bed that night he feels like an idiot for worrying about this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>First and foremost, Eddie and him have always been friends. Even when Richie pined after him in middle school and used any excuse to touch him with juvenile anxiety thrumming through his veins, he had still wanted to shoot the shit and play games at the arcade with him as much as he wanted to kiss him. That hasn’t suddenly stopped being true now that they’re forty and things feel more complicated than they did back then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has been so easy for him to obsessively worry about this when he was in LA, thousands of miles away from Eddie. To agonise over every text, every throwaway comment during their group Skype calls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here in Eddie’s apartment, sitting a few feet apart and ribbing each other for their music taste, things feel a lot simpler. Richie has always and will always want to be Eddie’s friend. Will want to call him up in the middle of the week just to talk about nothing at all. To send him pictures of stupid shit he sees and to visit him for New Year’s like Mike had last year. To crack jokes and make him laugh, which feels satisfying in a way it doesn’t with anyone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And no amount of daydreaming about holding his fucking hand or sucking his dick would ever change that. These things do not untruth themselves no matter how loudly his heart pounds when Eddie touches him in passing, no matter how much Richie wishes it was more than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are going to Europe together and it’s going to be a great time. They are going to look at old ass buildings, check out the weirdest museums they can find, swim in the Mediterranean sea and make fun of each other relentlessly. He is not going to ruin their friendship by trying to kiss him on the beach at night after too much wine, and he isn’t going to confess his love for him on the top of the Eiffel Tower. They are going to be fine, and if it kills him.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>The next day Eddie shows him New York City. He has been before, did a few gigs here over the past few years and once spent a weekend here in his 20s getting blackout drunk and hitting up gay bars. He doesn’t remember much about any of the visits. Partly because of the copious amounts of drugs and alcohol, partly because he only left his hotel when absolutely necessary (AKA when his agent strong-armed him into going to networking events). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So seeing the city not as a pitstop on his tour or an anonymous self-discovery experience but rather as the city that Eddie lives and breathes in is something else. He also hasn’t managed to get out of LA since he returned from Derry, and he appreciates the change of scenery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The day is clear and sunny, with only a smattering of clouds languidly moving across the blue sky. Around them, Jackson Heights is bustling with life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They have breakfast at a small café tucked away off the main road a few blocks from his apartment. Eddie tells him that he usually goes there on the weekends when he doesn’t have to get up early to go to work but still wants to have a reason to get out of the house. Richie imagines him sitting by himself at one of the mismatched tables with the red and white checkered tablecloths, drinking coffee and eating a blueberry muffin. Maybe reading the news on his phone, or texting whichever one of the Losers is up at that time. Not Richie, that’s for sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wants to go to Times Square and Eddie gets so mad about it he nearly punches him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to drown in tourists or do you want to see what’s good in this godforsaken city?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What’s ‘good’ according to Eddie Kaspbrak turns out to be the Queens Botanical Garden, which is only a 10 minute Uber ride away from their breakfast spot. They spend an hour looking at plants and coming up with increasingly stupid names for the weirder looking flowers they see. Richie also spends a good chunk of the time complaining that Times Square would have been better just to get a rise out of Eddie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterwards, they drink coffee at what Eddie insists is the best coffee shop in all of New York City.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are making a lot of bold claims about the quality of food in New York,” Richie points out. “Oh, the hubris! The arrogance! To think that you know it all!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shrugs. “I just have taste, is all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coffee is good. Richie, who doesn’t know jack shit about coffee, makes up some connoisseur bullshit about being able to get hints of raspberry and donkey’s balls, to which Eddie responds by giving him the full rundown of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual </span>
  </em>
  <span>notes you can taste in it if you don’t have ‘the palate of a fucking five year old’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty rich coming from the guy who drank an entire Venti Chocolate Chip Frappuccino™ yesterday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t really have to say the trademark part out loud, you know,” Eddie says, looking unimpressed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the afternoon, they take the subway </span>
  <span>— much to Richie’s delight and Eddie’s disgust — to the East Village and walk down to the park overlooking the Hudson. It isn’t a long walk but it’s nice, the sun just low enough to be partially obscured by New York’s skyscrapers, casting long shadows around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, you’re so out of breath,” Richie says when they get to a bench that Eddie deems fit for sitting down on (two others didn’t make the cut, for bird poop related reasons). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he is. Eddie is panting like he just ran five miles rather than walking for fifteen minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you didn’t have asthma?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shakes his head and takes big gulps of breath. Richie has the sudden urge to rub his back, like he needs comforting. He doesn’t. It would probably just be patronising. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my lungs,” Eddie finally says after a good minute of deep breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turns out when a clown impales you with his fucked up spider leg that can do irreparable damage to your lung tissue,” he tells him. “Who would have fucking thought, huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guilt is as instant and inescapable as always. Any word of Eddie’s injury is enough to make his chest tighten uncomfortably and his hands feel cold. It’s part of the reason he dropped out of the Losers chat for the first few months after Derry. Part of the reason he finds it hard to talk to Eddie now, sometimes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, Eds,” he says, staring at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t even start,” Eddie tells him. His breathing has evened out again and his face is only a little red. “I’m fine. I just lost some lung capacity, that’s all. There’s worse things to lose. Like my fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Do not start, Richie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t going to start anything,” Richie says, and he isn’t even lying. He has no idea what he would say. For all his talking he has never been good at saying what matters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I find that hard to believe. You live in a perpetual state of ‘about to start something’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fair,” Richie concedes. “Someone has to! All you bitches are too wholesome and never try to start anything. It’s so boring.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs and something in his chest loosens at that, if only a little. “I fight Bill in the group chat every week, dude. You don’t have a monopoly on starting drama.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie scoffs. He leans back on the bench and watches two ducks groom each other on the river bank. “You and Bill don’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>drama</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eds. Bill sends a link to a news site you don’t deem trustworthy enough and you tell him off like you’re his dad. That is not drama, no matter how funny it is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill is a fucking conspiracy theorist. You guys just don’t call him on his shit because he’s like the unofficial head honcho of this gang, and so I’m left trying to defend logic and reason by myself,” Eddie complains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie bumps his foot against Eddie’s stretched out leg in what is meant to be a ‘chill out, bro’ gesture but ends up as more of a ‘I like you so fucking much my face hurts’ gesture. He looks away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill’s brother got eaten by an alien killer clown, Eds. Of course he grew up to be a conspiracy theorist,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all fought that same fucking clown, dickwad! Doesn’t mean we’re now going around talking about chemtrails and Area fucking 51!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie watches with scientific curiosity as the vein on the side of Eddie’s forehead grows. He senses an opportunity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, dude. I think there is something to it. I mean, what are they hiding there? I’m not sure about the moon landing either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What follows is twenty minutes of Eddie, red in the face and breathless, yelling at Richie about irresponsible media engagement and basic fucking critical thinking skills and climate change deniers single-handedly setting scientific progress back two decades with their bullshit. </span>
</p><p><span>It</span> <span>couldn’t have gone better, frankly. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They eat dinner early at a Vietnamese restaurant that Eddie discovered with Ben and Bev in the winter. The pho is amazing and Eddie orders them a side of summer rolls that he claims are going to change Richie’s life, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>right. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They end up ordering a second serving of it halfway through the meal because they are fighting over the last one like children and Richie thinks it might end their friendship if they don’t just get more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their flight is due to leave at 8pm the next day and neither of them particularly want to do any sightseeing beforehand so they end up at some retro-themed bar that can’t decide which decade it is nostalgic for, playing 80s music and serving cocktails in milkshake glasses with red and white striped paper straws. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie settles for whiskey after staring at the bafflingly long cocktail menu for something like five minutes. Eddie gets a beer. It’s Friday night so the place is packed and they sit wedged together at a tiny table in the corner, right next to a group of grad students who are having the loudest possible debate about the merits of Cuban socialism. He tries his best to tune them out so he doesn’t accidentally get involved. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Five whiskeys deep, the world looks bright. Eddie has moved on from beer to some poison green cocktail situation which Richie finds hysterical. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“— so she said, you know what she fucking said to me?” Eddie says, waving his hands dramatically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie is already giggling at the punchline which hasn’t even happened yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, what?” he asks, leaning forwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She said, and I quote: ‘Maybe your lack of consideration for others is why your wife left you, Mr. Kaspbrak’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie throws his head back and laughs and laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Over fucking yoghurt, Richie! A tiny pot of low-fat blueberry yoghurt! She didn’t even label it,” Eddie continues, laughing as well. His face is flushed red and Richie can’t stop looking at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She sounds unhinged,” he says. “And you have to see her every day?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her office is right next to mine. I fucking hate her. Sometimes she knocks in the middle of the day just to tell me to keep it down. Apparently my </span>
  <em>
    <span>business phone calls </span>
  </em>
  <span>are disturbing her. At work!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. His hand lingers, feeling the warm shape of his deltoid, but only for a moment. “At least you won’t have to see her for three months.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank fuck for that. I cannot wait to forget for her entire name. If she emails me even once while I’m away I will quit on the spot,” Eddie says and kills his cocktail in one gulp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should just quit regardless. Find yourself a passion career or something,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks at him blankly. “Believe it or not, this shit </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>my passion career.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds, that is the saddest thing you have ever said.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you, man! Not everyone has to be a fucking creative trying to make it in Hollywood.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs. “Yeah, but a risk analyst? That’s what people do when they’ve given up on life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks genuinely mad now, his eyebrows drawn together like furious caterpillars. Richie thinks maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know shit about my life,” Eddie snaps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie swallows dryly. “Shit, man, I didn’t mean…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t just go around insulting people’s life choices like that. Sometimes you really hurt my fucking feelings,” Eddie says, the corners of his mouth downturned. He looks like he’s about to start crying, what the fuck, why would he cry? Richie has no idea what he’ll do if Eddie starts crying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eddie grins at him, shit-eating and a little mean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m having you on, asshole” he says. “You should’ve seen your face, it’s like I caught you committing a crime.” He looks pleased with himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie exhales loudly. “You little bitch,” he says. “I thought you were going to cry! You can’t do that to me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would I cry? Who do you think I am?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, man! Your eyes were all…” He opens his eyes as wide as he can and tries to somehow convey the concept of tears with his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “If I ever start crying because you’re being mean to me you are legally obligated to kill me on the spot.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Around 11pm Eddie turns to Richie and says, “You wanna get out of here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a pleasant few seconds he is living in a world in which that means what it could mean, coming from someone else. He smiles widely at Eddie. Eddie who will sleep in his bed tonight while he sleeps on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the subway, they sit so close together that their thighs are touching. There are four seats between them and the nearest other person.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie sleeps fitfully that night like he always does after drinking. He wakes up around 5am and spends half an hour with his cheek pressed to the cold bathroom tiles, waiting for the nausea to pass. He drinks a big glass of water and doesn’t throw up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometime around 8:30am he wakes up again, this time because Eddie is traipsing through the living room in his dark blue, striped silk pyjamas and his fancy slippers which Richie already mocked thoroughly the morning before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie watches him through one bleary eye, his other one smushed shut against the pillow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M’hey,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie jumps. “Jesus, Rich,” he says, clutching his chest. “I didn’t know you were awake.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘ wasn’t,” Richie grunts and struggles to sit up. His neck is stiff and painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Eddie says. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“S’fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubs his eyes. The living room is bathed in the golden sunlight of a summer morning. His head hurts, but only a little. His shoulders ache a little more. Being old sucks ass. Eddie looks lovely in the light, with his skin brushed golden and his hair messy in a way Richie rarely ever sees it. He looks soft and tired, like if Richie touched his face he would melt into it like a cat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going to make coffee,” Eddie informs him. “Do you want any?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I owe you my life.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie owns one of those sleek, stainless steel coffee machines with a milk frothing wand and lots of little buttons and wheels. Richie, who worked in hospitality for most of his twenties and early thirties, knows enough to understand the steps involved but not enough to actually do anything decent with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind of coffee do you want?” he asks Richie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Richie says intelligently. “Latte?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So uncultured,” Eddie mutters under his breath as he opens up one of his cupboards and gets out a bag of coffee beans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snob,” Richie shoots back and leans against the counter. He scratches his belly and yawns loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches Eddie pour fresh beans into the coffee grinder, grab the portafilter, and hold it underneath the machine as it grinds the beans. He watches as he uses the tamper to compress the coffee grounds tightly with deft hands, forehead creased in concentration, brushes loose grounds from the top of the portafilter, and locks it into the machine. He watches as he bends down to get a cup out from the shelf above, places it on the drip tray, and pushes the button for two shots on the machine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie feels a little lightheaded for no reason at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I only have oat milk,” Eddie informs him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s better for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know if I like oat milk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s all I have in, so you’ll just have to suck it up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie opens his massive fridge. It is mostly empty but what little there is is meticulously organised. He takes out a carton of Oatly — the barista edition — and pours it into the stainless steel pitcher. The noise of the steaming wand screeches as he froths the milk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you do this shit every morning? This is a lot of effort for a cup of coffee,” Richie says when the screeching stops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only on the weekends,” Eddie says. “I have a french press for work days.” He gracefully pours the frothed milk into the cup at an angle and even manages to get the foam to sit in a shape vaguely resembling a leaf. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sit at the small table in the kitchen, Richie with his legs stretched out to the side and Eddie with his feet tucked under the chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coffee is really fucking good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds, this is really fucking good,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it is,” Eddie says, looking pleased. “They’re Irving Farm beans. Baroida, Papua New Guinea, single origin.” </span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I don’t know what any of that means but it tastes great,” Richie tells him and smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie smiles back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They spend the rest of the day doing nothing at all. Eddie wanders around the apartment picking up random bits and putting them into their place, cleaning a space that doesn’t need cleaning at all. Richie answers some emails from his manager and takes a long time to thumb through old photos for something to upload on Instagram to appease Zoey. He takes a long, indulgent shower because Eddie doesn’t have a bathtub, the psychopath. Around 2pm they lounge on the sofa together and watch an episode of Planet Earth II. Richie falls asleep fifteen minutes in and wakes up lying on his side, with his glasses off. He finds them folded on the coffee table and smiles to himself. He can hear the whirr of the coffee machine in the kitchen, and Eddie humming. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a good flyer,” Eddie tells him later, in the airport security queue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks up from updating his Instagram story about being in the airport security queue because his followers have to know. “Dude, what? Are you gonna freak out on me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, asshole. I’m going to knock myself out with some Diphenhydramine and sleep for seven hours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie, baby, you can’t do that to me! I need to be entertained 24/7 or I will die!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s an overnight flight. Just go to sleep,” Eddie tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think people who can sleep on planes are psychopaths,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The queue moves and they shuffle along, inching closer to the full body scanners. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh sorry, I didn’t realise I was travelling with a four year old child,” Eddie says dryly. “My bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t? Oh dude, that’s on you. I thought you knew.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet. Maybe he should ask Eddie for some Diphenhydramine for the flight. He’s not sure what the in-flight entertainment will be like but it probably won’t be good enough to keep him from going stir-crazy, especially with Eddie out for the count. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it too late to cancel this trip?” Eddie asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Richie replies, popping the ‘p’. “We’re doing this, hot stuff.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They have a row of three seats to themselves due to Mike’s last minute cancellation. Richie shoves his backpack into the overhead locker and then takes Eddie’s duffle out of his hands and squeezes it into the remaining space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am tall enough to reach that, you know,” Eddie informs him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, dude. This shit is pretty high up. Are you sure?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Eddie says, sounding tired. “Window or aisle?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want the window or the aisle seat?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie, who was hoping that maybe they would sit right next to each other so that their legs would touch and maybe Eddie’s head would drop on his shoulder when the Diphenhydramine knocks him out for good, shrugs awkwardly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aisle? I drank a lot of water today, and if you’re going to be sleeping the whole way…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine by me,” Eddie says and shuffles past him to take his seat by the window. He puts his Hydro Flask into the seat pocket in front of him and puts on his little neck travel pillow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie has neither a Hydro Flask nor a funky little pillow. What he does have is a packet of Reese’s Cups, half a bottle of Pepsi Max and a hoodie that he can ball up and turn into a makeshift pillow in a pinch. He puts the Reese’s Cups into the seat pocket and has a sip of his Pepsi Max. They haven’t even taken off yet and already his brain is begging him for stimulus, anticipating what’s to come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to sleep so I miss take-off,” Eddie says next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks over at him. He has taken off his jacket and draped it over himself like a blanket, which is the cutest shit Richie has ever seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think they hand out blankets in a bit,” he tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t trust those things. They don’t wash them, you know,” Eddie responds and already sounds a little sluggish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiles. “Pretty sure that’s not true.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wh’ever,” Eddie grumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the last he hears from him. Richie puts his earphones in and scrolls through his list of downloaded podcasts episodes. He puts one on without really thinking about it too much and then gets up the Losers group chat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a picture of himself grinning widely with Eddie asleep in the background, captions it ‘can already tell this guy is gonna be an absolute hoot to travel with’ and sends it to the chat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘[laughing emoji] [laughing emoji] [laughing emoji] [laughing emoji]’ says Ben. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Safe flight, guys!’ says Bill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Tell Eddie I love him!’ says Bev. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That empty seat :-(‘ says Mike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sends a few purple hearts, wonders why his grown up friends have no life, and closes the chat. He puts his phone in his pocket, drops his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. He thinks about Eddie’s lungs, and the way his face flushed when he yelled at him by the river yesterday. He thinks about their thighs pressed together on the subway, and the space between them now. He thinks about his hand gripping the handle of the portafilter this morning and his knuckles dusted with dark hair. He thinks about him bobbing his head in time with Duran Duran’s A View to Kill, looking more relaxed than Richie is used to seeing him. He thinks about the scar on his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really should have asked for a Diphenhydramine. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter specific content warnings:<br/>Discussions of homophobia, mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of substance abuse (specifically cocaine)</p><p>Disclaimer: Once again, I've never been to Edinburgh so I'm sorry if it's a gross misrepresentation!</p><p>All venues mentioned exist (but are in no way affiliated lol)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s 8am in Scotland when they land, which means it’s only 3am in New York and midnight in Los Angeles and Richie’s body clock is well and truly fucked. Around four hours into the flight he managed to sleep for a total of 45 minutes before some guy accidentally elbowed him in the head as he walked past. He spent the time that he wasn’t trying to sleep watching Hotel Transylvania (great!), Hotel Transylvania 2 (still pretty good), Hotel Transylvania 3 (shit), and the first twenty minutes of Inside Out (he cried). Meanwhile Eddie somehow got a full seven hours of sleep despite the frequent turbulence and two fussy babies in their cabin and is now positively chipper. </p><p>“I think I’m going to die,” Richie tells him while they’re waiting for their luggage. </p><p>“Don’t be a baby,” Eddie says. He’s tapping away on his phone, probably answering emails or some other corporate hack bullshit, and barely looks up at Richie. “Our check in is at noon, so we have a few hours to kill.” </p><p>“Great,” he says unenthusiastically. </p><p>He doesn’t even know where their AirBnB is. Or anything about the general geography of Edinburgh, for that matter. Mike loves travelling and Eddie is a compulsive over-planner so there wasn’t much for Richie to do in terms of preparing for the trip other than packing his shit and showing up. As a result, he only really knows their itinerary (vaguely) and has a few notes on his phone of things he would like to check out. Eddie, meanwhile, has four separate Excel spreadsheets. </p><p>Past the arrivals gate, Richie immediately zeroes in on the nearest coffee shop. The red ‘Costa Coffee’ sign lures him and he blindly follows, dragging his duffle bag and his heavy feet. </p><p>“There’s a Starbucks over there, too,” Eddie tells him. </p><p>“We have Starbucks in the US, dude,” Richie scoffs. “Are we really going to put money in the pockets of the capitalist mermaid when we can go to this lovely, independent Scottish coffee shop?” </p><p>“I’m pretty sure this is a chain.” </p><p>“Don’t be pedantic.” </p><p>They sit at a little table in the corner of the Costa — which, by the way, is definitely a chain, given the branding and the scope of the menu — and Richie lets Eddie talk at him while sipping a mediocre latte. He really can’t muster up the energy to contribute anything of value so he settles on the occasional ‘hm’ and ‘yeah’ when Eddie stops long enough to inhale. His high energy is making Richie more exhausted. </p><p>Somehow, they manage to kill nearly two hours sitting there, during which Richie drinks three coffees and eats a chocolate muffin, and Eddie has a jasmine tea and two red summer berry coolers. </p><p>At 10am, they get the train to Haymarket Station, the station nearest to their apartment, and find another café to sit in. Richie has lost all sense of time, feeling disconnected from his body and vaguely giddy. Eddie is still completely fine, the bastard. This café actually seems to be a ‘lovely, independent Scottish coffee shop’ and not another Costa. It’s small and cozy, with colourful potted succulents on every wooden table, and fresh bread displayed lovingly on behind the glass counter. He struggles to understand the woman working there (Hannah, her name tag tells him) but is fairly sure he manages to order a grilled cheese. Eddie has another jasmine tea. </p><p>“I was thinking we could check out that Holyrood Palace and the volcano once we’ve dropped off our shit,” Eddie says when they sit down. </p><p>Richie blinks a few times, trying to get his thoughts together. </p><p>“You want to actually do shit today?” he asks finally. “Fuck, dude. I was just gonna sleep.” </p><p>Eddie looks at him, his dark eyebrows drawn together. “We only have 3 days in Edinburgh, Rich,” he says, sounding baffled. </p><p>“Yeah, but if I die of sleep deprivation on the first day then the rest of this vacation is going to be shit for you.” </p><p>“I actually think I’ll prefer it that way,” Eddie shoots back. </p><p>Richie shifts back a little in his chair. “Ouch, dude.”</p><p>“I didn’t mean that,” Eddie says after a moment of silence.</p><p>He shrugs and looks down at his coffee. “Whatever, Eds.” </p><p>He is well aware that the only reason he took that personally is the fact he is dead on his feet. He always gets a little sensitive if he goes more than 16 hours without sleep. It also sucks that the only person who can genuinely hurt his feelings nowadays is also kind of a dick. It’s not because Eddie is actually a mean or callous person, no, the fact is just they have always spoken to each other like this, needling and ribbing and trying to be the one to get the last word in, come up with the sharpest insult. The fact is that sometimes it hits too close to home. Sometimes Eddie’s barbed wire words dig into the soft flesh of his belly which he tries so hard never to expose. Sometimes he doesn’t know how to respond. Sometimes the joke touches the things he knows are true in the dark. </p><p>After thirty years he thinks it’s probably too late to work on boundaries. </p><p>And at the same time as this is all true, he would never want to change the way they bite and snap at each other because it makes his whole body feel electric, knowing that there is no one else who gets him like that. Eddie has always been the quickest thinker, always had the sharpest tongue. He knows what Richie is about, and he takes it in stride. He calls him out on his bullshit but also goes along with it more often than not. It’s part of their deal, and part of the reason Eddie makes him feel so insane. </p><p>When he looks up, Eddie’s eyes are fixed on the wall behind him. His face is pinched. </p><p>“Hey, if you want to look at that palace today then we will look at the palace,” Richie says. “I can’t promise I’ll be good company though.” </p><p>“No, you should sleep,” Eddie says and finally looks at him, deep lines etched into his forehead. Richie wonders, as he always does, what he is thinking. Again, he wishes he knew him better, so he could figure it out just by looking at him. </p><p> </p><p>By the time they check into the AirBnB, Richie feels like he has lost his mind. Back in his twenties he used to pull all nighters constantly, running on nothing but sugar, caffeine and fitful afternoon naps. At forty, his body is less forgiving than that. He feels lightheaded and anxious from the coffee, and as he listens to Eddie chatting to the woman who owns the apartment he feels like his mind is completely separate from his body.</p><p>The woman, he gathers, is called Mairead, loves to talk, and thinks they're a couple. Eddie very lightly disputed it at the start of the conversation but she brushed past it like he hadn't said anything and went ahead with her assumption. Richie tries to look nonchalant as he leans against the wall in the hallway, mainly so that he doesn't just pass out.</p><p>While Mairead tells Eddie about how the mattress in the master bedroom is more ergonomically sound than the one in the smaller one and so she recommends they sleep on that one, Richie stares at the ceiling and takes deep breaths to try to calm his fluttering heart. He should not have had three coffees. Instead of making him less tired it just gave him cold sweats and a rabbit quick pulse.</p><p>As soon as Mairead is gone, he makes a beeline for one of the bedrooms.</p><p>"See ya in a few hours, Spaghetti," he says, throws open the door and collapses onto the nearest available surface. He barely hears Eddie’s faint ‘Night, Richie’ from the hall before he falls asleep like that, spread-eagled on the bed and fully clothed. </p><p> </p><p>Richie wakes up around 5pm, feeling disoriented and hungry but a little bit better overall. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of distant traffic outside.</p><p>He stretches and groans when his back pops noisily.</p><p>Eddie must have gone out. He turns onto his back and digs his phone out of his pocket. He has eighteen unread texts from the Losers group chat, and one text from Eddie. </p><p>He swipes away the notification for the Losers group chat, making a mental note to check it later, and opens the message from Eddie. </p><p> </p><p>[From: Eddie 12:24pm]<br/>
<em>Gone to have a look around. Text me when you're up.</em></p><p> </p><p>Richie texts back 'Up!' and rolls out of bed.</p><p>Now that he is more than just the empty husk of a person he can have a proper look around. The apartment is small but with heaps of natural light. The living room and kitchen are one room, separated only by a long kitchen island, and everything is modern but with enough personality that it doesn’t feel sterile. The light wood floor is cold underneath his bare feet.</p><p>He searches the kitchen cupboards for anything edible and the only thing he comes up with is a tin of biscuits. He opens the lid and picks out a chocolate-dipped wafer. It's not stale, which is a win.</p><p>His phone buzzes. He eats another biscuit, feeling a little nauseous with hunger.</p><p>His phone buzzes again. And again.</p><p>He checks it.</p><p> </p><p>[From: Eddie 5:14pm]<br/>
<em>I'm not far. Food?</em></p><p>[From: Eddie 5:14pm]<br/>
<em>[Picture attached]</em></p><p>[From: Eddie 5:15pm]<br/>
<em>[Live Location]</em></p><p> </p><p>The picture is of the front of what looks like a bar. The walls and door are painted navy blue and the words 'Salt Horse' are painted above the entrance.</p><p>He sends back 'ok :)' and puts the biscuit tin back in the cupboard.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Once he has changed into fresh clothes and splashed some water in his face he heads out, following Google Maps to the location Eddie sent him. Edinburgh is colder than New York mainly because of the biting wind, no matter how hard the summer sun tries to soften its blow. Still, it's pleasant enough outside. The streets immediately surrounding their AirBnB are lined with terraced houses but the closer he gets to Salt Horse the more metropolitan it becomes, as he presumably moves closer to the city centre.</p><p>It only takes him around fifteen minutes to walk to the place. He recognises the navy blue front without Google Maps having to tell him he's there. He peeks into one of the large windows and spots Eddie sitting at a table near the back of the busy bar, a bottle of beer and what could be a city guide in front of him. His stomach does a pleasant little flip which he finds incredibly embarrassing and will never tell anyone about, ever. Just as he manages to shake it off, Eddie looks up and spots him creepily staring in through the window. He raises an eyebrow and Richie flips him off before heading inside.</p><p>"Hey," Eddie says as he approaches the table. "I thought I wouldn't hear from you until at least 9pm."</p><p>Richie flops down in the chair across from him and reaches for Eddie's beer bottle. "I think I would've starved to death if I slept any longer," he says and reads the label. "’Marmalade on Rye’? Not the flavour I want from a beer, I have to say."</p><p>Eddie slides the food menu across the table to him and takes back his beer. "It's nice. They do good burgers, at least according to Tripadvisor. And they have a five star food hygiene rating."</p><p>"Oh, thank god," Richie says. "So no rats in the kitchen."</p><p>"Yeah. No rats."</p><p>"What are you having?" Richie asks, skimming the menu. </p><p>"The vegan burger." </p><p>"Do you want to split some wings?"</p><p>Eddie shakes his head no. "Our track record when it comes to splitting sides sucks. Just have some wings for yourself."</p><p>Richie laughs. "Fine. Haggis Chilli Cheese Fries? What the fuck is that about?"</p><p>"No idea but you should try it. For the experience."</p><p>He goes up to the bar to order for both of them so Eddie can watch the table. The choice of beer is overwhelming so he just settles on ordering whatever sounds funniest. In the end, he does order the Haggis fries, if only so that he can post it on Instagram with an obnoxious caption to let everyone know he is in Europe.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Mike and Bill, huh?” he says when he sits back down at their table, setting his beer down gingerly in front of him. He waggles his eyebrows. “Who would’ve thought?”</p><p>Eddie gives him a strange look. “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”</p><p>Richie laughs, an ugly, snorfling sound. “What, you think I’m a homophobe?”</p><p>“You make a lot of gay jokes for someone who isn’t,” Eddie shoots back.</p><p>He isn’t sure what to say to that. There isn’t much he can say short of coming out to him right then and there, to explain that making jokes about the concept of being gay was the closest he could get to holding the words in his mouth.</p><p>He takes a sip of his beer.</p><p>“You know,” Eddie continues before Richie can figure out what to say. “I think sometimes you don’t know when to stop. You can’t accept that Mike and Bill have a good thing going, you just have to twist it into a joke. It’s honestly so—”</p><p>“Hey, dude, hold on,” Richie interrupts him then, feeling blindsided.</p><p>Eddie’s mouth snaps shut and he looks at Richie, eyebrows furrowed.</p><p>“I’m not making jokes! I wasn’t going to make any jokes! I don’t know what shitty, knock-off version of me you’ve constructed in your head based on my stupid stand-up sets from 2008 but I’m not actually a fucking homophobe.” He takes a deep breath. “I have nothing to say about Bill and Mike that I wouldn’t also say about Ben and Bev. So hop off my dick, man.”</p><p>He isn’t quite sure why Eddie’s went from 0 to 100 about this because of one eyebrow waggle, or why he jumped down his throat before Richie even had the chance to say anything but if one of his closest friends is that convinced he’s a bigot then maybe he needs to sort out his act. Go on twitter and share some articles from Pink News or something.</p><p>But then, didn’t he ask Bill how Eddie took the news about them at the deli, fearing the worst? Didn’t he — for a few moments — believe that Eddie might have an issue with his two male friends being in love? Can he blame him for doing the exact same thing now?</p><p>“Right,” Eddie says finally. “Well, I’m happy for them.”</p><p>“So am I! Shit. Why wouldn’t I be?”</p><p>“I’ve seen your stand-up,” Eddie tells him dryly.</p><p>Richie shoots him a dark look. “I don’t write my own material.”</p><p>“It was still you making the jokes.”</p><p>“Fuck you. I’m not a homophobe and I’m sorry for making you think I am. Jesus, dude. I love Mike and Bill, I couldn’t be happier for them,” Richie says. “Gay rights!” He whoops.</p><p>There is a brief, strange pause where that hangs in the air between them and he kind of wants to die. Then Eddie says, “So, Loch Ness tomorrow," having clearly decided to let it rest.</p><p>Richie is grateful for it. It’s stupid, but he finds it scary that he has spent his entire life hiding something that most decent people now find completely acceptable. That his childhood friends —  the people he trusted more than anyone in the world but never with this — are getting angry at him for potentially being homophobic. He remembers sitting on the floor in Bill’s bedroom, furiously ripping a piece of paper into smaller and smaller pieces to release some of his nervous energy, and working up the courage to tell him that he likes boys. He remembers never quite getting there. He remembers being sixteen and high as a kite, asking his sister what it feels like to kiss a boy. He remembers her laughing at him and saying ‘What, you wanna give it a go, punk?’. He remembers hating her, for being allowed to like boys. For kissing Carlos Herreres at prom in front of the entire school. For going out with Daniel Price for all of two weeks, and wallowing loudly in the heartbreak of it for months and months.</p><p>He thinks about Bill at his west coast liberal arts college, liking boys and feeling okay about it. He wonders, not for the first time this week, why he is the only coward in the Losers Club. Wonders when it will be his turn to do something stupid and brave.</p><p> </p><p>That night at the apartment, he lies awake in the queen sized bed and stares at the ceiling. He can hear Eddie shouting in the room next to him and wonders what he sees in his nightmares. He wonders if he would appreciate Richie waking him up, or if it would just freak him out.</p><p>In another world he knows exactly what Eddie Kaspbrak needs when he has bad dreams. In that world Richie gets up and goes into his bedroom to wake him gently by placing a hand on his shoulder and saying his name. He makes him a cup of tea and talks to him until he doesn't remember that there was ever anything to be scared of. He confides in him about his own bad dreams, and the way he can never quite sit still. The things he sees in the corner of his eyes, in dark shadows. They laugh about it together and it has no power over them.</p><p>In this world things aren’t so easy. In this world Richie listens to Eddie and does nothing. His heart sits heavy in his chest, like a rock, like a fist. </p><p>He doesn't fall asleep until Eddie quietens down. In his own dream, someone pushes him under the water and drowns him.</p><p> </p><p>For some unholy reason Eddie and Mike decided a few weeks ago to book a bus tour to Loch Ness on their second day, clearly feeling no empathy at all for jet-lagged Richie. He finds comfort in the fact that at least Eddie also seems to be doing worse today than he did yesterday, but that feeling is short-lived as he realises it's probably not the jet lag but the nightmares he could hear through the walls.</p><p>They sit in tired silence on one of the uncomfortable metal benches inside the station as they wait for their bus to pull up. Richie is so tired that he is shaking a little, and not even his paper cup of shitty black coffee is making him feel any better.</p><p>"I really hate you guys," he tells Eddie when they finally take their seats on the bus.</p><p>Eddie gets the window again through sheer force of will, and Richie isn't up for arguing about it right now.</p><p>"Hm?"</p><p>"You and Mike. For booking this stupid tour. At 8am."</p><p>Eddie looks over at him and blinks owlishly. "It's Loch Ness, asshole," he says after a brief moment. "We can't go to Scotland and not see Loch Ness."</p><p>"Ugh, you're such an American," Richie complains.</p><p>"And what are you?"</p><p>"I'm above the concept of nationalities."</p><p>"Sure, Mr. 'Costa Is an Independent Coffee Shop'," Eddie snaps.</p><p>Richie laughs and drops his head against the back of his seat heavily.</p><p>"You're only going to win this one because I'm too tired to fight back," he says. "I'm going to sleep on you now."</p><p>Eddie shifts back, further towards the window. "Don't you dare!"</p><p>Richie leans over and drops his cheek on Eddie's shoulder, sighing heavily. He makes a show out of shuffling closer and pressing his entire body against him, nuzzling into the soft sleeve of his jacket.</p><p>"Fuck off!" Eddie yelps and tries to shove him off. "You’re not allowed to sleep on me! Richie!"</p><p>Richie puts his weight into it and plays dead so Eddie can't move him. "Mhm, nap time," he says and does a big, theatrical yawn. Eddie's body is warm against his and he feels it in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>Eddie changes his tactic and starts jabbing him in the side with his fingers. It hurts like shit and Richie tries to grab his hands to get him to stop, but Eddie is not deterred that easily.</p><p>"Eddie, Eddie! Stop!" he yelps and finally pulls back. He laughs as he settles back into his own seat.</p><p>"I hate you. Everyone on this bus wants us dead now," Eddie says.</p><p>Richie looks around and true enough, the elderly man two rows down is staring daggers at them. He doesn't even look away when they make eye contact, and Richie gives him an apologetic shrug.</p><p> </p><p>He manages to get an hour of sleep but it is certainly not uninterrupted. Every bump in the road jostles him, and one time he chokes on his own spit and wakes himself up by coughing. He gives up eventually, accepting that it’s pointless, and settles for putting in his earphones to listen to music.</p><p>"Shit," Eddie says, next to him.</p><p>Richie takes out one earbud and looks over. "What?"</p><p>"Forgot my headphones," he says.</p><p>"Ah," Richie says. He looks down at his hand holding the earbud he took out. "Wanna share?"</p><p>Eddie looks at him like Richie just offered to take a shit on the seat. "That's gross," he says.</p><p>Richie shrugs. "Your loss," he tells him and goes back to his phone to look through his playlists.</p><p>"Wait," Eddie says and holds out one hand. "Fine. Thank you."</p><p> </p><p>So they share earphones. So they have to lean a little closer together so that the cables don't keep getting tangled. So Richie loses his mind about it a little bit, feeling like he is thirteen and Eddie just got in the hammock with him, feeling like he is fifteen and they are the only two people in the movie theatre for the daytime screening of Terminator 2. So what?</p><p>When the bus pulls into a motorway rest stop and the driver announces that they have fifteen minutes, Richie is grateful for it. Not that he isn't enjoying his cutesy romcom moment with Eddie but there is only so much one man can take, and he is dying for a cigarette.</p><p>He doesn't really smoke, or at least that's what he tells himself, but he still carries a squished packet of Malboro Golds in his inner coat pocket. He lights one now, standing in the parking lot by the bright orange bus. Desperate times, and all that. The back of his throat burns pleasantly with it and as he watches the smoke curl in the still air in front of him he feels a little more sane. </p><p>Eddie exits the bus a minute later and pulls a face when he sees him.</p><p>"Do you want lung cancer? Because that's how you get lung cancer," he says.</p><p>Richie huffs out a laugh. "What, no way! I've actually come here straight from the 1940s so I believe smoking cures cancer."</p><p>Eddie stays a good six feet away from him. "I'm not coming near you while you smoke. Second-hand smoke actually causes 600,000 premature deaths per year."</p><p>"No way. Have I finally found a way to get you to leave me alone?" Richie takes a long drag and leans forward a little to blow the smoke in Eddie's direction.</p><p>He actually steps back, looking grossed out. "Please," he scoffs. "Like you wouldn't just shrivel up and die without my constant attention."</p><p>Richie pulls his coat tighter around himself to shield himself from the truth of it. He straightens up a little, workshopping his impression of someone who is completely unfazed by Eddie Kaspbrak.</p><p>"In your dreams, babydoll," he says and blows him a kiss.</p><p>Eddie catches it, crushes it in his fist, and throws it on the ground. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Loch Ness is huge and there isn't a monster in sight.</p><p>"Can't see Nessie," he tells Eddie as they stand at the bank of the loch, looking out on the water.</p><p>Eddie doesn't say anything, he just stares ahead at the lake with jet-black eyes like he will uncover its secret if he just looks hard enough. </p><p>He gets like that sometimes. For all that he talks like he’s doing a conversational 100-metre dash, sometimes it seems like his brain just slows down to a pace Richie has never experienced in his life. An intense, razor-sharp focus, like the universe has narrowed down to a single point. </p><p>The longer they stand in silence the more Richie fidgets. He tries to see what Eddie is seeing, what's keeping his attention, but mostly he thinks maybe this is just an issue of attention span rather than an issue of them seeing different things. Most people can look at a big body of water for more than 30 seconds without getting bored. Richie can’t. Richie has untreated ADHD and eats too much sugar. </p><p>He takes out his phone to take some pictures and manages to get one of Eddie against the backdrop of green highlands, looking intense and cute in his white polo shirt with his sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair.</p><p>"Hey Eds, do you mind being featured on my Instagram?"</p><p>Eddie finally looks away from the lake and turns to him. "Okay," he says. "But I reserve the right to veto any picture before you post it."</p><p>Richie shrugs. "That's fair." He gets up his gallery and selects the picture he took, then hands it over to him.</p><p>Eddie looks at it with a slight frown. "Why do I look so angry?"</p><p>"I hate to break it to you but that's just what your face looks like."</p><p>"I think the whole," he gestures to his face, "stab wound situation makes it worse."</p><p>"The scar rules, dude," Richie tells him. "Very badass."</p><p>Eddie gives him a strange look and hands his phone back. "It's fine. If you want to post it, I mean."</p><p>Richie does. He captions it 'spotted this cryptid at Loch Ness. would've preferred Nessie tho :(' and tags e_kaspbrak, who has an Instagram profile with no posts, three followers, and no icon.</p><p> </p><p>By the time they sit down for lunch at a small, overpriced restaurant near the water the post has 857 likes and e_kaspbrak has 162 new followers.</p><p>"I hate this," Eddie tells him over their shared plate of thick cut french fries. "I'm not cut out for fame."</p><p>Richie just laughs at him and tells him he should start curating his online presence. "LinkedIn is not the only social media platform out there, you know?" he tells him.</p><p>Eddie launches a french fry at his head with the precision of a sniper, getting him right between the eyes.</p><p>"I'm not on LinkedIn!"</p><p>"You can't fool me, Kaspbrak," Richie laughs and throws the french fry back at him, missing his cheek narrowly. "I see right through your lies!"</p><p> </p><p>On the bus journey back, both of them are a little hyper. Richie is not sure if it's the fresh air or the sugar rush from the ice cream they ate but whatever it is, he keeps bouncing his leg and Eddie is talking a mile a minute.</p><p>"I just think that we should look into getting a bluetooth speaker," Eddie says. "What if we want to listen to music but we aren't in the car? Or if I want to listen to a podcast at the AirBnB but I'm doing the dishes and don't want to wear headphones? It would make sense. I'm just annoyed that I didn't think to bring mine. It's in storage, you know, and it's not even that big. I would have had the space."</p><p>"Sure, Eds," Richie says. "We can look into that."</p><p>"Do they have Best Buy here?" Eddie asks. "We should try to find a Best Buy."</p><p>"Even if they don't have Best Buy I'm sure they have other electronics stores here, dude."</p><p>Eddie nods. "Yeah. I'll google it when we're home."</p><p>Something warm and pleasant surges in Richie's chest at the thought of sharing a home with Eddie, even if it is just for the next few months. He thinks about another world in which Richie is brave and Eddie loves him back, and in which he knows what he needs when he has nightmares. He thinks about their apartment in LA, or maybe in Jackson Heights, or on Staten Island. Maybe somewhere else entirely. He thinks about their dog, or maybe their cat. He thinks about waking up in the morning when Eddie gets up for work and watching him get dressed in the pale light of morning. He thinks about bumping elbows as they brush their teeth and he hopes that they're doing well, in that world.</p><p>"Hey, what's your favourite movie?" Eddie asks, apropos of nothing.</p><p>"Huh?"</p><p>"Your favourite movie. What is it."</p><p>"Uh," Richie says intelligently. "<em>The Fifth Element </em>?"</p><p>Eddie pauses and then grins widely for no discernible reason. “Great choice,” he says. </p><p>"You trying to get the answers to my security questions, Kaspbrak?"</p><p>"Fuck off. I'm just trying to get to know you," Eddie bites back.</p><p>"You do know me," Richie says.</p><p>"Do I? We barely speak."</p><p>He swallows. "What? We talk all the time."</p><p>Eddie gives him one of his 'c'mon, dude' looks, one eyebrow raised. "Richie, until four days ago our longest conversation since Derry was a half hour phone call. In February."</p><p>Richie interlaces his fingers and squeezes his hands nervously. He looks at the red, digital clock at the front of the bus. 6:43pm. 1:43pm in New York. 10:43am in Los Angeles. 10:44am now.</p><p>"I text you," he says finally.</p><p>"Yeah, like once every ten days," Eddie says, unimpressed.</p><p>"Damn, Spaghetti, you keeping a spreadsheet?" He huffs a laugh and doesn't mean it. "I didn't know you needed my attention so badly."</p><p>"Oh, forget it."</p><p>"Dude, no. Sorry. I'm being a dick," Richie says and in his head Lisa, his imaginary therapist, tells him she is proud of him. "So what's your favourite movie?"</p><p>There's a brief pause. Then Eddie says, "It's <em> The Fifth Element. </em>"</p><p>Richie snorts. "Wow," he says. "Your great taste surprises me once again. That must have been my influence, when we were kids."</p><p>"Pretty sure it was me who influenced you."</p><p>"You wish, Eds. I had to introduce you to all the cool shit, you were such a little narc when I met you. You would still be listening to Sonia's Christian records if it wasn't for me."</p><p>"Fuck you," Eddie says which is how Richie knows he has won. </p><p> </p><p>"We could play 20 questions," Richie says to him that night.</p><p>Eddie is sitting on the couch in the living room of their AirBnB with his laptop balanced on his legs, looking up bluetooth speakers and where to get them in Edinburgh.</p><p>Richie is perched on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, scrolling through his Twitter feed. He gets Twitter a little more than Instagram, mainly because it caters to his need for things to be in a contained, brief format that is easy to read and quick to forget.</p><p>"Why?" Eddie asks, barely looking up from his screen. </p><p>"To get to know each other," Richie says.</p><p>When Eddie doesn't say anything, he looks over at him. He has closed the lid of his laptop and is looking at Richie with a thoughtful frown.</p><p>"What?" Richie asks, self-conscious. He feels stupid.</p><p>"There was this thing going around a while ago," Eddie starts. "Thirty-six questions to get to know someone."</p><p>Richie thinks he knows what he is talking about. Knows that what he means is 'thirty-six questions to fall in love', some psychological study done a couple of years ago which went around the internet for a good few months. He read the questions and doesn't remember any of them, but does remember thinking that he doesn't ever want to be asked them. </p><p>“Uh,” he says. “I guess?” </p><p>“Just a thought,” Eddie says quickly and shrugs. He opens his laptop again and, presumably, goes back to what he was doing.</p><p>Richie fidgets in his seat. He crosses and uncrosses his feet. He looks at the ceiling and studies a small, dark stain on it, wondering how it got there. </p><p>“If you could invite anyone in the world to dinner, who would it be?” Eddie asks. </p><p>Richie looks at him. “Is that one of them?”</p><p>“Yeah, first one.” </p><p>“I expected it to be a bit more hard-hitting than that.”<br/>
<br/>
“Just answer the question, Tozier.” </p><p>Richie considers it. There are a million answers he could pick, and all of them are probably true in some way. He considers what part of his soul he wants to reveal to Eddie. Wonders if he should choose a joke answer and stay true to his character, or take this seriously. He thinks that maybe if he doesn’t take it seriously that will be the end of the thirty-six questions, and he won’t have to answer increasingly personal questions. He thinks that maybe he doesn’t want that. </p><p>“I’d invite Bev,” he says finally. </p><p>Eddie laughs, a sharp, angry sound. Like someone ripped it out of him. </p><p>“Bev?” he asks. “Out of everyone in the world?” </p><p>“Yeah, dude,” Richie says. “She’s like the coolest person I know and I haven’t seen her in 6 months.” </p><p>“But you can just see her another time. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! You can invite anyone!” </p><p>“Dude, you know it’s just a hypothetical scenario, right?” Richie replies. “It’s not real.”</p><p>“That’s not the point. You’re meant to answer it like it is real,” Eddie says, incensed. </p><p>“Well, I did! And I want to invite Bev. What do you have against Bev?”</p><p>“I don’t have anything against Bev!”<br/>
<br/>
“Then let me invite her for dinner, you fascist!” </p><p>“Don’t call me a fucking fascist, asshole!” Eddie yells. </p><p>Richie throws his hands up in the air.  “Stop acting like one then!” </p><p>“Oh, fuck you!” </p><p>“Why are we yelling!” </p><p>Eddie, who leaned forwards at some point like he was ready to jump Richie (in a stabbing kind of way, not a sexy way), slumps backwards. “I don’t know,” he says. “You just make me want to yell all the time.” </p><p>Richie laughs. “Hey, don’t blame me for your anger issues.” </p><p>“I can’t believe you called me a fascist,” he grumbles. </p><p>And Richie just laughs harder. </p><p>He thinks about how he almost cancelled the trip, and how much he missed Eddie, before. He thinks about how much he is going to miss him in three months and his body aches with it. </p><p> </p><p>Edinburgh treats them well on their last day. The sun greets them pleasantly in the morning, and stays with them for the whole day, and there is a light breeze keeping them from sweating. Richie forgoes his jeans in favour of some cargo shorts that Eddie mocks him for endlessly, and they walk the length of the city, ticking off the sights still on Eddie’s list. It is the first day on this trip that Richie doesn’t feel like he is going to keel over from how tired he is, which could be because the jet lag is slowly settling, or because Eddie let him sleep until 11am. </p><p>He doesn’t ask any more of the thirty-six questions and Richie can’t decide if he’s grateful or disappointed. </p><p> </p><p>In Manchester, it rains when they arrive. After a mild three days in Edinburgh the change is a little jarring. Clouds darken the sky, heavy with summer rain, and the air smells like a brewing thunderstorm. </p><p>It’s only a fifteen minute walk from Piccadilly Station to their AirBnB but with their heavy luggage and the rain it feels like at least thirty, and Eddie complains about it all the way. Because of the weather, they decide to spend the first two hours in the new city hanging about their small apartment. Eddie is pacing the length of the living room, restless, and Richie is lounging on the couch with one of Bill’s books which he has been trying to read for two weeks now. He is on page 32, but he is determined to finish it by the end of this trip. Three months should be enough time to read a 400 page book, right?</p><p>He makes it to page 34 before giving up.</p><p>"Man, you know I love Bill but his shit's so pretentious," he says to Eddie who is still pacing.</p><p>"Mhm," says Eddie.</p><p>"You okay there, Eds?"</p><p>Eddie stops pacing and turns to look at him. He runs his hand through his hair so it is sticking up a little wildly. Richie would make a joke about it but then Eddie would probably smooth it back down and that would be a great loss.</p><p>"Are we stupid for doing this? Like, is this crazy?"</p><p>Richie is taken aback by the question. "What? This trip?"</p><p>Eddie nods.</p><p>"Nah, dude. It's not like we're going to climb Mount Everest or anything. We're just doing some comfortable city hopping," Richie tells him. </p><p>"I don't even like travelling!" Eddie says, a little crazed.</p><p>Richie shrugs. "I don't either, really."</p><p>"Then what are we doing here?"</p><p>"I don't know, man, we're just hanging out! Except we're in Europe." He sets aside Bill's book and crosses his ankles. "Why are you freaking out about it right now?"</p><p>"I'm not freaking out, asshole," Eddie snaps and does the aggressive little chopping motion with his hands that he does when he is pissed off.</p><p>"You seem a little freaked out," Richie tells him.</p><p>"Well, I'm not."</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>They stare at each other in silence for a long moment. Eddie's eyes are wide and dark, his caterpillar eyebrows curved upwards in something like worry.</p><p>"I just thought," Eddie says finally, breaking the strange moment, "that this would fix everything. I would leave New York and suddenly things would be different. That was stupid."</p><p>"What is there to fix?" Richie asks.</p><p>Eddie barks out a laugh. "Fuck, dude, it'd take less time to list the things that don't need fixing."</p><p>"I think you're doing fine," Richie says.</p><p>"How would you know how I'm doing?"</p><p>He doesn't know how to argue with that. He wants to say, listen, I can hear your nightmares, but we are all a little messed up and you are the bravest person I know, you don't need to go to Europe to fix yourself, you don't need fixing. He wants to say, Eddie, baby, you are the strongest motherfucker out there. You got stabbed by a giant clown spider leg and you made it out alive. You have survived more than any human being is meant to survive.</p><p>But maybe he really doesn't know. He doesn't know what Eddie dreams about, and he doesn't know what he tells his therapist. He doesn't know the things Eddie hears in the dark, the feelings tucked deep inside his chest, the tense shape of his shoulder when something startles him.</p><p>"Do you want to go find somewhere to eat?" Richie says instead.</p><p>Eddie rubs his face with both hands and sighs.</p><p>Richie chews on his lower lip.</p><p>"Yeah, okay," Eddie says.</p><p> </p><p>"’Would you like to be famous?’" he asks Eddie later, sitting across from him in a little hipster bar and canteen situation. 'Soup Kitchen' it's called, and true to the name they serve soup in little enamel mugs. Thankfully they also do sandwiches and random other shit because he was way too hungry for just a mug of soup. </p><p>Richie is having the best tofu banh mi of his life, with pickled red cabbage and spicy sriracha mayo, and Eddie is eating a bowl of red lentil and coconut dhal. Between them they are sharing some sweet potato fries and a garlic flatbread which Eddie is eating most of.</p><p>"What?" Eddie asks through a mouthful of garlic flatbread.</p><p>"It's the next question on the list," Richie tells him. "'Would you like to be famous? In what way?'"</p><p>"Oh," Eddie says. "No, not really."</p><p>Richie waits for him to elaborate. When Eddie says nothing else, he gestures in his direction with the last remaining bit of his sandwich.</p><p>"Dude, respect the spirit of the game. That's not even an answer!"</p><p>"What the fuck? It's an answer! No, I wouldn't want to be famous!"</p><p>"How am I meant to get to know you if that's all you're giving me?"</p><p>Eddie dips a sweet potato fry in his dhal and pops it into his mouth. He shrugs.</p><p>"I just don't think I would enjoy it. I don't want anyone to take pictures of me, or talk about me on the internet, and I definitely don't want people speculating about my life," he says.</p><p>"There are other ways to be famous," Richie says. "You could be famous for writing a really good book, or being the best risk analyst in the field. Ben is sort of famous, and I don't think he gets hounded by the press."</p><p>"Ben isn't famous, he's just rich," Eddie says. "No one knows who the fuck he is aside from architecture nerds."</p><p>Richie finishes off the last bit of his sandwich mournfully, already debating if he can convince Eddie to go here again tomorrow.</p><p>"But the fact that architecture nerds know who he is means he is kind of famous," he says after chewing on the crust for a while.</p><p>"That's not fame, that's being renowned," Eddie says.</p><p>"I'm pretty sure being renowned is just a synonym for being famous, dude. You're being pedantic." </p><p>"I guess," Eddie concedes, much to Richie's surprise. "Being renowned for something would be cool. But it would also mean people feel entitled to a large part of my life and that just isn't worth it."</p><p>"That makes sense," Richie says. "If you were famous I would buy all your merch, though."</p><p>"My <em>merch</em>? What am I, a pop star?"</p><p>"Oh, Eddie baby, I wish! Think of the posters I could have on my wall! I could be your groupie."</p><p>"I'd have to file a restraining order." </p><p>"Whatever, the law can’t hurt me. ACAB!"</p><p>Eddie laughs and Richie smiles, a little pleased with himself.</p><p> </p><p>That night they spend a solid three hours at NQ64, an arcade-themed bar where you can drink beer while also getting incredibly competitive at video games. They spend a ridiculous amount on the little golden coin tokens for the games, the bartender passing them over the bar in a red solo cup like some kind of college throwback, and hog Street Fighter until someone comes over and tells them they have to get off it so other people can play. Richie makes Eddie do Dance Dance Revolution with him and they both do terribly, they get a little drunk and it feels like high school. It feels like best friends, and summer break, and Eddie giggling in his ear. </p><p> </p><p>The next day the sky has cleared up, the ground is dry, and Manchester is gorgeous in the sun. They have breakfast at the apartment on the little balcony, using the few groceries Eddie insisted on buying yesterday.</p><p>Completely without the help of thirty-six questions to fall in love, Richie learns that morning that Eddie is a terrible cook. He discovers this as they are sitting in the sun on the uncomfortable deck chairs on the balcony, drinking shitty instant coffee and eating the omelette that Eddie made for them.</p><p>When he takes the first bite, he spends about five seconds chewing on what is somehow the driest and least flavourful thing he has ever eaten and then looks at Eddie with raised eyebrows.</p><p>"Dude, this sucks ass," he says, very diplomatically.</p><p>He expected Eddie to be offended, or tell him to fuck off. Instead, he shrugs.</p><p>"Yeah," he says and takes another bite of his own.</p><p>"What, you knew? Why didn't you warn me?"</p><p>"I'm shit at cooking, so what? Still going to do it, it's better than always eating out."</p><p>"How are you 40 years old and can't cook?"</p><p>"How are you 40 years old and can't dress yourself?" Eddie fires back.</p><p>Richie laughs and sets his plate down on the small table in front of them. He picks up his cup and has a sip of his coffee to get the taste of dry egg out of his mouth.</p><p>"I think I dress really well, actually. Whereas you don't even seem to enjoy your own cooking."</p><p>“I get by,” Eddie says dryly. “I mostly eat salad. They’re hard to mess up.” </p><p>“God, Eds, you say the most tragic things.” </p><p>Richie vows then that by the end of this he will have taught Eddie how to make a decent omelette and if it kills him. He might not be good at much but he knows how to cook an omelette, knowledge left over from the few years in his twenties when he worked as a kitchen porter while trying to find his footing in stand-up. He spent the first months washing dishes and peeling potatoes, but by the time he left he had worked his way up to being the guy they got to cover commis and line chefs when they were off sick. </p><p>He hated it there, in the crowded, hot kitchen where every mistake could mean things going up in flames but something about having angry, egotistical men shouting at you about the correct way to cut an onion sticks with you, so he left the job with no qualifications, several burn scars and a stupid amount of knowledge about flavours, roux and the cooking temperature of various vegetables. </p><p>When he tells Eddie he’ll teach him, Eddie tells him to fuck off and throws the crust of his toast at him. Richie just laughs.</p><p> </p><p>That day, they spend a few hours looking through the little shops and boutiques around their apartment in the Northern Quarter. Richie gets lost in a shop selling new and secondhand vinyls and ends up buying the ABBA Gold Anniversary Edition for a ridiculous amount of money even though he doesn’t own a record player. Eddie has to physically drag him out of the fourth vintage clothing shop they enter, but he doesn’t manage to stop him from buying a T-shirt with two chihuahuas wearing space helmets on the front and ‘GIRL POWER’ on the back in bright pink graphic letters. </p><p>In the afternoon, they go to the John Rylands library because, according to Tripadvisor, it’s a ‘must-see’ and Eddie is easily swayed by that kind of rousing endorsement. It really is just an old building that looks vaguely like Hogwarts inside, and Richie doesn’t care about Harry Potter in the slightest, but they take pictures for Mike because he would probably get a kick out of it and goof around trying to get the worst candids of each other.</p><p>Richie is a little bit fed up with walking by the time they leave the library, so he suggests finding somewhere cool to drink. In a completely unsurprising move, Eddie goes directly to Tripadvisor for help but Richie can’t even make fun of him for it because that is how they end up trying to destroy each other at crazy golf and drinking cocktails at a cocktails-and-crazy-golf place, which  is the best combination of things he can think of. Eddie gets absolutely smashed but still wipes the floor with him, which is a huge blow to Richie’s ego, but also somehow the knowledge that Eddie is bizarrely good at mini golf makes the experience worth it. </p><p> </p><p>On the walk home to their AirBnB, Eddie suddenly turns to Richie so fast that he nearly falls over. Richie reaches out to steady him and keeps his hand on his elbow out of pure selfishness.</p><p>“D’you ever rehearse what you are going to say before a phone call?” Eddie asks. </p><p>Richie frowns, confused. “Huh?” </p><p>“‘S the next question,” Eddie tells him. </p><p>“Oh!” Richie nods. “Uh, yeah, I do. I suck at phone calls.” </p><p>“Cool,” Eddie says. </p><p>“Yeah? You feel like you know me better now?”</p><p>Eddie turns to smile at him dopily. “Yeah, man. I do.” </p><p>It is so painfully earnest that Richie can’t even make a joke about it. </p><p>“Good,” he says and smiles back. He lets go of Eddie’s elbow and tucks his hand into his coat pocket, fingers curling into a fist. </p><p> </p><p>On the train to London, somewhere between Macclesfield and Stoke-on-Trent, Eddie leans over and tugs one earbud out of Richie’s ear. </p><p>“Here. ‘What would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?’” </p><p>Richie grins and pauses his music. He pulls his other earbud out as well and untangles the cords before putting them in his pocket. </p><p>“And I thought I was the attention-seeker in this relationship,” he says lightly.</p><p>“Oh fuck off, go back to listening to ABBA or whatever the fuck, see if I care,” Eddie huffs. </p><p>“I’m kidding, dude,” Richie says. “And I was actually listening to Madonna.” </p><p>“Slightly better than ABBA.” </p><p>He shakes his head. “I <em> will </em>get you to like ABBA, Spaghetti. I think it would really help you out like, emotionally, if you became the kind of person who liked ABBA.” </p><p>“Never gonna happen,” Eddie tells him firmly. “So anyway, Richie’s perfect day?”</p><p>He crosses and uncrosses his arms, thinking. </p><p>“I get to sleep until at least noon,” Richie starts. “No short, angry men try to bother me about sightseeing at 9am.” </p><p>Eddie scoffs. “Hilarious.” </p><p>“I watch Jurassic Park in my pyjamas and someone cooks me a really nice brunch, hash browns and poached eggs and french toast and everything,” he continues, unphased. “I go to the beach and magically there are no other people, just me and an ice cream van man.” </p><p>“An ice cream van man,” Eddie repeats. “Is he involved in this fantasy somehow? Are you hanging out? What’s his name?” </p><p>Richie laughs. “We’re not <em> hanging out, </em>Eds. He is working! Supplying me with ice cream.”</p><p>“Okay. So you’re at the beach.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m gonna sunbathe for like an hour—”</p><p>“An hour?” Eddie interrupts. “I hope you’re wearing sunscreen.” </p><p>“The sun can’t hurt me on my perfect day,” Richie tells him. “Anyway, while I sunbathe I listen to music. Or maybe a podcast, if I get bored. Then I’ll go for a swim to cool off. And then I have a very late lunch or early dinner at Mama Bee’s.” </p><p>“Mama Bee’s?”</p><p>“Yeah, Mama Bee’s Deli. Great hummus. Then I’m going to the cinema to watch a really bad romcom just to feel something,” Richie says. “And then I’m going to go home, drink some beer on my balcony, and watch another movie. Maybe <em> The Fifth Element </em>, since we both know it’s the best movie ever made. And then I’m going to take a bubble bath, watch some reality TV, and go to bed.” </p><p>He leaves out the part where he maybe scores some coke and does two hours of frantic writing while high. Except, unlike in real life, the next day he doesn’t read back what he wrote with the dawning realisation that maybe he is just not funny. </p><p>“So you’re watching three movies and not seeing any people except for the ice cream van man?” </p><p>“When you say it like that it sounds kinda sad, dude,” Richie huffs. </p><p>“I’m just summing up what you said!” </p><p>“Fine, maybe I’ll get Bill to come meet me at Mama Bee’s,” he concedes. </p><p>“Is Bill your only friend?”</p><p>“Damn, Eds, are you trying to hurt my feelings?”  </p><p>Eddie shakes his head. "No, just trying to find out how you live."</p><p>"Well, I have a couple of friends in LA but a lot of them are in show biz and kind of freaks," Richie says lightly. "I hang out with Bill a lot. And sometimes I call Bev, sometimes I call Ben, sometimes I call Mike." He pauses. "Sometimes I text you."</p><p>"You don't call me, though," Eddie points out.</p><p>Richie feels, suddenly, too big for his skin. "You don't call me much either," he says.</p><p>"I tried though, after Derry," Eddie says, his voice neutral.</p><p>Richie knows that. Of course he knows. Eddie called Richie at least once a week, after Derry. Sometimes Richie picked up. Sometimes he pretended to be asleep, if it was late or early enough for that to fly. Sometimes he picked up only to tell Eddie he was busy while sitting alone in his apartment. Eventually, Eddie stopped calling.</p><p>"Yeah," Richie says. "Sorry."</p><p>"I just don't get it."</p><p>He feels trapped in between the window of the train and Eddie, no way to get out, and he doesn't know how to deflect this one without fucking up whatever normal-people friendship they have built between them these past few days. </p><p>"Do we have to do this right now?" he asks, and can't stop the nervous laugh crawling out of his throat. "I was just being a dick, it didn't have anything to do with you."</p><p>Eddie exhales sharply and looks at him. "If it didn't have anything to do with me then why was it only me you avoided?"</p><p>Richie squirms under the scalding scrutiny of his gaze. "Look, Eds," he starts but just trails off pathetically. He doesn't know how to explain without either being an asshole or baring his soul, and he isn't ready for that kind of vulnerability. Will never be ready for that kind of vulnerability.</p><p><em> Just tell him </em>, says the manifestation of Bill that sometimes pops up when Richie is being stupid or cowardly.</p><p><em> Tell him what, Bill, </em> he thinks. <em> That I was scared of him? That I couldn't face the sheer, fucked up enormity of my feelings? That I nearly lost him and I think maybe that would have killed me, too? </em></p><p>"Don't worry about it, Rich," Eddie says, finally. "It's fine."</p><p>It's not fine, Richie wants to say. It shouldn't be. He did this to them; he wasted months being scared. He should have known sooner what his favourite movie is, how he takes his coffee, what keeps him up at night. Should have known about his lungs. He should have asked about his lungs.</p><p>"Sorry," he says instead.</p><p>Eddie drops his head against the pillowed backrest of the seat and puts his earphones back in. Richie watches as he closes his eyes, takes in the shape of his dark eyelashes, the freckles on his nose. His gaze lingers on the pink scar on his cheek. He wonders what would constitute a perfect day for Eddie.</p><p>He turns away to stare out of the window at the green expanse of the countryside, and doesn't look back at Eddie until they've gone past Milton Keynes.</p><p> </p><p>They arrive in the late afternoon and take the tube to their AirBnB in Shoreditch. Eddie insists on unpacking his shit in every new apartment which baffles Richie to no end, so he spends half an hour hanging up shirts in his bedroom while Richie watches Youtube videos on the couch in the living room. The apartment is nice, if small, with exposed brick walls and an abundance of house plants that he really hopes they are not expected to take care of. The high ceilings create an illusion of space that the apartment doesn't actually have, and the yellow couch is so comfortable that he has a hard time getting up when Eddie comes out of his bedroom and bullies him into going to explore the area.</p><p>Their conversation on the train hangs heavy over the rest of their day, colouring their usual banter with more bite. Over dinner at a vegan burger place Eddie snaps and snarls and Richie feels the guilt heavy in his chest, sitting there and festering like a stone in muddy water. No matter how much he jokes, and prods, and drinks, it stays the whole night. He thinks this must be how Eddie breathes now, after being impaled by Pennywise. He wonders how he does it. </p><p>That night, he dreams about a hospital room, and the long beep of a flatlining EKG. He dreams, again, of drowning.</p><p> </p><p>Early the next day, before even Eddie is awake, Richie goes to a small corner shop nearby to pick up some eggs, bacon and bread, and makes an apology breakfast though he will never openly admit that's what it is. He takes care to set the table and makes scrambled eggs how Eddie likes them (slightly overdone, he doesn't like it when they're runny). He brews some coffee, butters some toast. </p><p>When Eddie emerges from the bathroom freshly shaven and showered and wearing only a towel around his waist, Richie burns his tongue on his steaming cup of coffee and stares at the long, jagged line of gnarly pink scar tissue running down his chest. He has to physically turn his back and pretend to season the eggs some more to tear himself away.</p><p>"Thanks for breakfast," Eddie says a few minutes later when he comes out of his bedroom in a white T-shirt and jeans, and Richie thinks he can still make out the scar underneath the fabric. His tongue stings.</p><p>Eddie sits down at the small kitchen table and reaches for the cup of coffee Richie set next to his plate.</p><p>Richie sits down on the opposite chair and says, "Someone has to feed you, since you can't do it yourself.”</p><p>Eddie flips him off but smiles, and something loosens in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>They do some of the typical tourist shit that they are expected to do, like seeing Big Ben, paying a ridiculous amount of money to go on the London Eye, and taking photos with the guards outside Buckingham Palace, but Eddie also insists they go a little off the beaten track, so they also do a street art walking tour with a woman with bright blue hair who really hates Banksy, and they look at plants in the Barbican Conservatory. Richie gets a photo of Eddie looking miserable amongst some tall, winding plants and posts it on Instagram, tagging @e_kaspbrak who now has 791 followers and still not a single post.</p><p>On their second day, they make the absolutely ridiculous decision to check out the London Dungeon and Richie nearly throws up from panic several times while they’re inside. They cling to each other in the mirror maze, scream at every jump scare, and eventually they get thrown out because Eddie punches one of the actors in the face while yelling 'Get fucked, Clown!' when he jumps out at them from a dark corner.</p><p>They vow to never set foot in that place again, especially not for 40 dollars, and as they walk along the Thames they laugh, and laugh, and laugh, if only so that they don't have to acknowledge what made them look like crazy people in front of thirty other tourists in a glorified haunted house in the first place.</p><p>In the evenings, they listen to music on their newly purchased JBL bluetooth speaker, and drink cheap wine, and talk about their friends, about LA, about Eddie’s divorce, about stupid things they did as kids. They talk about everything, and nothing at all, and no one mentions the clown. </p><p> </p><p>On their third and last day in London, Richie wakes up and realises it has been a week now since they first landed in Edinburgh. As he lies on his side on the soft, white sheets and looks out of the window onto the sun-bleached rooftop of the next building over he can hear Eddie moving around the kitchen, the quiet clinking of cups. He breathes in and his chest expands with an overwhelming feeling of lightness. Not for the first time this week he is giddy with how grateful he is that he gets to have this, even if this isn't quite everything he wants. Ever since that day in the Neibolt house, where Eddie's blood dripped down on his shirt and seeped deep, deep into his lungs, every fibre of his being has longed for this, for Eddie to live and breathe in the world. As he sat by his bedside in the sterile, white hospital room and waited for him to wake up he tried to imagine a world without him in it and his whole body strained against the sheer wrongness of it.</p><p>So how lucky it is now to hear him. To wake up in an unfamiliar city, an ocean between them and Derry, between them and Eddie's blood buried underneath the rubble of their childhood terror. To wake up here and to know Eddie Kaspbrak is alive and making coffee in the room next door.</p><p>He feels drunk with it. And in that moment he thinks that it is enough to love Eddie and to know that he is moving, breathing, living somewhere in the world. How could it not be, when he was once so close to holding his eulogy in his mouth? How could it not be enough? </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific content warnings: </p><p>This chapter heavily features recreational drug use in this, specifically weed and truffles (psychedelic). Cocaine is mentioned briefly but not used. If that is not something you are comfortable with I suggest skipping this chapter entirely. If you want a summary of what happens without explicit drug mentions feel free to message me on twitter (@reesefinchs) and I'll do my best to help out. </p><p>Mentions if past canon-typical violence and near-death experiences.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is a train that goes from London St Pancras directly to Amsterdam and takes a total of four hours. Richie is absolutely baffled by the concept of going from one country to another on a train in less time than it takes him to fly from LA to New York, in a fraction of the time it would take him to drive from the top to the bottom of the state of California.</p><p>The Eurostar is comfortable, fast, and cost them less than 50 bucks each. You can get it from London to Paris, Brussels, or Amsterdam. The route to Amsterdam will take them to Dover, underneath the English Channel to Calais, through Belgium and up to the Netherlands. </p><p>As they sit and look out at the English countryside past London's sprawling suburbs, Richie listens to Eddie's breath next to him. There is a slight wheeze to it which by now he knows is his injury and not the asthma he never had, but it's present and he is close enough to hear it that it provides him with something like comfort. </p><p>He managed to nab the window seat this time and it feels like a victory despite the fact he knows that Eddie only gave it up because they will be in a tunnel for a large part of the journey.</p><p>"Our last train ride in Europe, Spaghetti," Richie says to him. "It's all road trip from here, baby."</p><p>Eddie hums. "I'm just glad we didn't have to drive here. Richard Tozier trying to navigate left-hand traffic? Might as well start writing my own eulogy.” </p><p>Richie looks over at him and grins. Eddie is wearing a soft, red hoodie and his face is covered in the ghost of his childhood freckles, not quite there yet but definitely beginning to show. He is squinting slightly against the intensity of the sun shining in through the window and his nose is wrinkled.</p><p>Richie really can't stand to look at him for too long.</p><p>He turns away and takes his phone out. He looks through his gallery, trying to find a screenshot he took a few days ago.</p><p>"’When did you last sing to yourself, and when did you last sing to someone else?’" Richie reads out when he finds the list of questions. He turns back to Eddie and tries to focus on his eyebrows because at least they don't make him feel insane when he looks at them. "That's our next question, in case you don’t feel close enough to me yet.” </p><p>They haven't done any more of the thirty-six questions since the train ride from Manchester to London. Richie has been waiting for Eddie to ask the next one, and when he didn't he figured he would just let it rest for now There are things to find without the help of some psychological study, like the fact that Eddie can't cook for shit, that he bops his head a little when a song he likes comes on in public, that he is an uptight prick to people in customer service but always tips ridiculous amounts as if to make up for it, that he can't focus on podcasts no matter how hard he tries, that he likes to read crappy sci-fi novels and complains about the plot holes like he didn’t willingly choose to read a book he spent two dollars on. The way his left cheek dimples when he really smiles, unabashed and open.</p><p>But there are still things that he feels he can't just ask him. Maybe he needs an excuse to go deeper, touch on things that might hurt.</p><p>"I don't sing to myself," Eddie says.</p><p>Richie raises his eyebrows. "What, you don't sing in the shower, Kaspbrak?"</p><p>Eddie shrugs. "Not really. I don't enjoy showering."</p><p>"But you shower every day. Sometimes twice a day!"</p><p>"That's because it's basic fucking hygiene, especially when travelling! Do you know how many germs we come in contact with on public transport? In bars? At tourist attractions?" Eddie throws his hands up in exaggerated outrage. "That doesn't mean I have to enjoy the process of taking a shower."</p><p>Richie laughs and tries to soften it so it doesn't sound too mean. "Alright, Eds, so you don't sing in the shower."</p><p>"Sometimes I sing when folding laundry," Eddie says after a moment of thoughtful silence.</p><p>"You enjoy folding laundry more than showering?"</p><p>"Um, yeah."</p><p>"You freak. That is freak behaviour," Richie tells him. And then, "What about singing to other people?"</p><p>Eddie's offended expression clears up a little and shifts into something like disgust.</p><p>"No fucking way," he says. "I'd rather die. They tried to make me sing karaoke at the company Christmas do last year and I just left. I don't think I've ever sung to anyone in my life."</p><p>Richie laughs, again, at the mental image of Eddie doing karaoke and wonders if Amsterdam has any good venues for that. He reckons that given enough time and persuasion (cocktails) he will get him on stage belting out Material Girl eventually. </p><p>"Typical," he says. "No fun allowed!"</p><p>Eddie shoots him a dark look and jabs him in the side with his index finger. </p><p>They sit in companionable silence for a while and once again Richie tries to figure out what Eddie is thinking. He feels blindsided by him more often than anyone else, never quite knowing what he is going to say. Sometimes Eddie gets angry at the smallest shit, flying off the handle for no reason at all, and sometimes he laughs off things that Richie expected him to get mad at, like crappy jokes about his divorce, his injury, his mother. Over the past week and a half he has been trying to figure it out by throwing random shit at Eddie and seeing what gets a reaction, if only so he knows which topics are off-limits. The issue is that one moment joking about his ex-wife will get him a laugh, and then next time Eddie suddenly tries to deck him so there really is no winning. </p><p>"Did you sing to me, back in Derry? At the hospital?" Eddie asks quietly and Richie blanches.</p><p>"Uh, I'm not—"</p><p>"Because I remember you singing to me."</p><p>Richie's stomach clenches uncomfortably and he fidgets in his seat. So what if he did? In the moment, it made sense to hum his favourite songs to pass the time while Eddie was knocked out by morphine — or wasn't, apparently. </p><p>"Maybe," he chokes out, embarrassed.</p><p>Eddie's face is uncharacteristically soft, open, and Richie has to look away.</p><p>"Yeah," Eddie says. "Thank you. I think it made me feel better, at the time."</p><p>Richie stares at the back of the seat in front of him, trying to figure out the intricate shapes of the fabric stretched taut across it.</p><p>"You can’t sing for shit though," Eddie adds when Richie doesn't say anything.</p><p>He turns to meet his gaze again and this is fine, that's familiar territory. Eddie heckles him and he responds, makes some joke about his mom liking it when he serenaded her outside their house, and the strange expression on Eddie's face shifts back into something a little guarded, a little pinched, a little more manageable.</p><p> </p><p>In Amsterdam, Eddie starts to lose some of the tension in the lines of his shoulders, in the way he holds his hands by his side. Richie might not know everything about his terse silences, his nightmares, or the aggressive energy behind his laugh but he can fill in the blanks, and the further they get from Derry and into the belly of Europe, the softer the slope of his smile becomes and that is what matters. They might not be able to outrun everything they left buried underneath the Neibolt house but the least they can do is try.</p><p>Eddie buys a yoga mat from a sports outlet he finds on Google Maps on their first afternoon in the city. Richie walks into the living room the next morning to find him in downward dog, wearing nothing but a sheer white tank top and some cuffed yoga pants and watching a video on his phone where some brunette woman is talking softly about focusing the breath. He spends a creepy few seconds staring at his ass in bleary-eyed shock, and then turns around on his heels and goes back into his bedroom to hide there until he can no longer hear the soft murmur of the woman's voice in the room next door.</p><p> </p><p>"We have to do <em> some </em>sightseeing before you get too stoned to do anything but vegetate," Eddie tells him resolutely over breakfast.</p><p>Richie, who was hoping for a wake-and-bake, only groans in response.</p><p>Eddie will not be argued with however, so they end up at the Body Worlds exhibition learning about the intricacies of the human skeletal, muscular, cardiovascular and nervous systems. It's interesting enough, and kind of gross, with enough opportunities for dick jokes to entertain Richie for a solid hour, like a toddler being given a colourful toy to get him to shut the fuck up. </p><p>Still, he is relieved when they leave and Eddie finally agrees to go to a coffee shop. Richie wants nothing more than to sit in the park in the bright-hot summer sun, baked out of his mind and giggling at stupid shit.</p><p>Of course Eddie refuses to just go to any old coffee shop, so they end up walking for half an hour to find one that TripAdvisor rated highly enough for his liking.</p><p>They spend nearly fifteen minutes debating what strain to get as the guy behind the counter gets increasingly more exasperated. Eddie wants to know the exact effect it will have and the guy can only tell him so much, repeating again and again that everyone has a slightly different experience and there is no way to guarantee it will be one way or another.</p><p>"Look, Eds, if you don't want to smoke we don't have to," Richie says, pulling him aside.</p><p>"I want to!" Eddie insists. "I'm just trying to avoid having a psychotic break or something, all sorts of shit can happen if your brain doesn't react well to it!"</p><p>"Well, like our man here said, there's no way to guarantee it. But I don't know a single person who has ever had a psychotic break because they smoked shit weed, and I live in LA. People smoke shit weed and have mental breakdowns every day in LA, but never one because of the other," Richie says. "And this shit they sell here is legit, too! They wouldn't sell you something dodgy, this isn't some scummy dealer trying to get you hooked on crack." </p><p>Eddie huffs a laugh and crosses his arms. "Fine. You pick one."</p><p>Richie raises his eyebrows.</p><p>"That way it's your fault if it goes badly," Eddie says.</p><p>"Oh, great! Fucking great!” He rolls his eyes but goes up to the counter anyways. He gets them two pre-rolled joints of a strain called Tangerine Dreams which promises to be an upbeat body high and the guy behind the counter practically throws it at him, happy to finally see the back of them.</p><p> </p><p>They find a nice and somewhat secluded spot behind some trees in a park with a view of the river Amstel. Richie lights his joint first with practiced ease, breathing in deep on the first toke and exhaling up into the air so he doesn't blow smoke in Eddie's face.</p><p>He passes Eddie the lighter. He watches him struggle with it for a long moment, lips quirked, before taking pity on him and grabbing the joint and lighter from him.</p><p>He lights it for him and hands it back. "Deep breaths, don’t worry if you cough. We've got plenty of water and I pinky-promise not to judge you for being a little narc.” He holds out his pinky. </p><p>Eddie slaps his hand away and gives him a dirty look, then takes his first drag. He tips his head back to exhale, exposing the long column of his throat.</p><p>Richie looks away quickly before Eddie can catch him staring and takes another toke of his own joint.</p><p>"You know, this is so much worse than second-hand smoke," Richie says lightly.</p><p>Eddie flicks a twig in his direction. "We're all gonna die anyways," he replies.</p><p>"That's not very Kasprakesque of you, Eds."</p><p>"Fuck off," Eddie says and takes another drag. This time, Richie can hear the hitch in his breath as he does, and then his torso collapses in on itself as he bends over his knees in a fit of painful sounding coughs from deep inside his chest.</p><p>Richie scrambles for their bag to get a bottle of water for him. He shuffles over and lightly touches his arm. Eddie looks up, visibly straining to stop coughing, and takes the water from him.</p><p>After a few more dry coughs and nearly half the bottle he calms down. He is taking deep, gulping breaths and Richie keeps his hand where it is, rubbing small circles on the tanned skin of his biceps.</p><p>"Alright, Eds?" he says, holding his own joint between his fingers.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," he says. “Don’t baby me.” </p><p>"No one is babying anyone, chill out.” </p><p>Eddie glowers at him. </p><p>Richie finally removes his hand and shuffles backwards on the grass to put some distance between them.</p><p>He starts to feel woozy halfway through the joint. The world is a little more vibrant and a little more blurred around him and everything feels slightly off-balance.</p><p>Eddie is saying something nonsensical about insurance policies for rental cars when Richie starts laughing and lies back on the grass.</p><p>"Why are we talking about insurance policies?" he asks him, letting his head drop to the side so he can look at Eddie.</p><p>"You asked!" Eddie says, indignant.</p><p>"Did I?" Richie giggles. "Doesn't sound like something I'd do."</p><p>"Maybe you didn't ask." Eddie shrugs. "Why are you lying down?"</p><p>"It's comfortable," he says. "And I'm a little high."</p><p>"I think I am, too," Eddie tells him, looking vaguely confused about it.</p><p>"Yeah, you probably are." Richie holds the joint between his lips and stretches his arms above his head, looking up at the sky flecked with cotton candy clouds. He watches them move across the vast expanse of blue as they shift and change into shapes he can't quite determine.</p><p>There is a shuffling noise next to him and he looks over to find Eddie lying down next to him, a few feet away.</p><p>"Oh," Eddie says.</p><p>"Oh?" Richie asks.</p><p>"This <em> is </em>nice."</p><p>"Yeah, man." He takes a few more tokes and then stubs out the joint on the grass next to him. There is still some left of it, but he feels stoned already and if he gives it a few minutes he'll probably be at just the right level to be a bit stupid and a bit giggly and think about nothing but the freckles on Eddie's arms, on his cheek.</p><p>He looks back at the sky and spends some time trying to make Eddie laugh by pointing out inappropriate shapes in the clouds.</p><p>Making Eddie laugh like this is disgustingly easy and Richie basks in it. At one point he describes in great detail just how two clouds merging into one look like Bill and Mike getting it on in a Denny's parking lot and Eddie laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until he has to sit up to catch his breath. But even then he keeps laughing, choking on it, and it starts to sound a little painful.</p><p>Richie is laughing too but when Eddie starts coughing again he sits up a little, concerned. He can't stop himself from giggling, desperate and high-pitched, and his brain is lagging about 100 yards behind him so he watches Eddie sputter and wheeze and does nothing.</p><p>"Eddie, hey," he manages to choke out between laughs. It's the kind of laugh that doesn't feel pleasant anymore, tipped over the edge into compulsion. "You okay?"</p><p>He fumbles for the water bottle and unscrews the cap with great difficulty, then holds it out to him. Eddie takes it and he watches him try to take a sip which he just ends up choking on. He keeps coughing, his whole body shaking with it. </p><p>Richie is still laughing but it doesn’t feel good and he wants to stop. Even to his ears it sounds more like dry sobs than anything else. </p><p>“I don’t feel great,” Eddie says hoarsely when he calms down enough to speak. </p><p>Richie takes long, deep breaths and shuffles closer to him, and finally he has stopped laughing. “How much of that joint did you have?” he asks.</p><p>Eddie’s eyes widen comically. “What?” he rasps. “All of it!” </p><p>For a good minute Richie simply tries to process that, and something deep inside his chest tries to crawl out, either a laugh or a whine. “What the fuck, Eds?” he finally chokes out. “All of it? What do you mean, all of it?”</p><p>“I mean I smoked all of it, Richie, what the fuck? Was I not meant to? You didn’t tell me not to smoke all of it! What the hell!” Eddie claps his palms to the side of his face and his fingertips go white where he presses them into the bone above his temples. “Am I gonna die, dude? Am I gonna fucking die?”</p><p>“You’re not going to die! Fuck! You’ll be fine,” Richie says, not sure  which one of them he is trying to convince. He chews on his lower lip and his eyes dart around frantically as he tries to collect his thoughts. </p><p>Eddie draws his knees up to his chest and wheezes. “I’m going to fucking die,” he says, high-pitched. </p><p>Shaking his head, Richie crawls over to him on his hands and knees. He touches his shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture and begins rubbing small circles into the dip above his collarbone with his thumb. </p><p>“You’re not going to die,” he repeats despite the panic settling in the pit of his stomach. “You’re just whiteying. Happens all the time.” </p><p>Eddie stares at him with wide, blood-shot eyes. Underneath his light tan, he looks deathly pale. Richie tries desperately to think of what to do, what he would do if he wasn’t stoned out of his mind. He has been around plenty of people who had a bit too much and couldn’t deal with it, or smoked on an empty stomach, so he should know what to do. He should say something reassuring and kind, maybe get him some food. Normally he doesn’t freak out this bad, even when he’s stoned. </p><p>But normally it isn’t his fault when it happens to someone. Didn’t he talk him into this? Eddie was clearly freaked out at the coffee shop and if Richie was a good friend he would have said hey, let’s just not do it, let’s go to another museum and have a chill, drug-free day and get some nice food, maybe some drinks. But he wasn’t that, and he wanted to get stoned so badly, and now Eddie is going to think he’s dying for the next hour at least just because Richie was selfish and wanted a joint and didn’t think to tell him not to smoke the whole thing, <em> Jesus Christ </em> , he smoked the whole thing! Richie only had a little more than half and he is high as fuck! Eddie is the size of a skinny rat and never smokes, and he had <em> the whole joint.  </em></p><p>If Mike was here he would know what to do. If Mike was here he wouldn’t have let Eddie smoke the whole joint, or he would have simply not made him smoke in the first place. </p><p>Richie is still rubbing small circles into the soft fabric of Eddie’s t-shirt and Eddie still looks panicked, like a rabbit caught by the scruff of its neck. </p><p>“Drink some water,” Richie says eventually. “It’ll help.” </p><p>Eddie grips the plastic bottle tightly, white-knuckled, as he takes a huge gulp. Richie watches as a few drops of water spill down the side of his mouth and onto his chin, follows them as they drip onto the collar of his shirt and seep into the fabric. The world around them feels distant and unreal, and the only thing that matters to him is the narrow shape of Eddie’s jaw and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the soft wheeze at the back of his throat. </p><p>Eddie sets the water bottle down carefully in the grass and then his whole body crumples, his head coming to rest on his knees. He groans, low and terrible, and wraps his arms tighter around his shins. </p><p>Richie moves his hand from his shoulder and starts to gently pat his upper back. </p><p>“You okay, Eds?” he asks quietly. </p><p>Eddie says nothing and just keeps groaning. </p><p>They sit like that for an undetermined amount of time — minutes that feel like hours. His thoughts are trapped in an endless feedback loop of guilt and panic, thinking again and again that surely Eddie won’t forgive him for this. Eddie is going to be furious, he is going to blame Richie and he would be right to, and he’s going to call Mike and laugh about what a selfish, shitty friend he is and then they’re going to go their separate ways and that is it. </p><p>And this is just the same old story. Hasn’t he always been a bad influence, offering Eddie cigarettes and laughing at him when he said no, pushing and prodding until Eddie was coughing up smoke and scrambling for his inhaler, until Eddie was was wading through greywater and gasping panicked breaths in the cave where poor Betty died? Goading until they were too high up in the tree, unable to get back down, and Eddie jumped like an idiot and broke his foot and spent the summer of ‘92 on crutches — and wasn’t it always Richie’s fault? Always teasing, mocking, sweet talking him, saying shit like <em> C’mon, Eds, don’t be a baby </em> and <em> I bet you five bucks you’re too much of a pussy to key Mr. Howard’s car </em> and <em> Scared Mrs K will catch you, huh? </em> and Eddie always, always took the bait, did the stupid thing, got into trouble or sprained his wrist or scraped his knees raw and bloody. And yet he never once stopped doing whatever dumb, reckless shit Richie suggested, telling him to fuck off and <em> doing it anyway, </em>and now he is forty-one years old and shaking on the fresh, green grass by the Amstel, his head between his knees and his hands clasped tight around his shins. </p><p>Sonia Kaspbrak might have been a terrible mother but maybe she was right to try to keep them apart. </p><p>Beside him, Eddie makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a dry heave. Richie brings the hand resting on his shoulder blade forwards and touches his forearm lightly. </p><p>“Hey,” he says. “Eddie.” </p><p>“I’m gonna be sick,” Eddie tells him and his head comes up sharply. He looks even worse than before, no colour left in his face. His freckles stand in sharp contrast against the sickly pale of his cheeks. </p><p>Richie isn’t exactly surprised by that development. He has been in his position often enough to know how this goes down. </p><p>Somehow Eddie fights his way to a standing position, nearly toppling over twice, and stumbles to the river bank where he collapses back onto his knees and heaves, bent over the water. </p><p>Richie crawls over to him and sits at a hesitant distance a few feet away as Eddie empties the contents of his stomach into the Amstel. He is thankful for the somewhat hidden spot they chose, certain that the only thing that could make this experience worse for Eddie would be strangers watching them or worse, strangers trying to help. </p><p>In between retching, Eddie sits back on his heels and stays very still with his face buried in his hands, taking deep and controlled breaths. Richie watches beads of cold sweat dripping down his nape and wishes, once again, that Mike was here. Or Bev, or Ben. Even Bill would probably be more helpful than him. </p><p>He feels like it is never ending, Eddie buckling over and throwing up, sitting back on his heels, buckling over, sitting back, buckling over, sitting back. All the while he sits and stares at him, his thoughts thick and slow like syrup. </p><p>“I want to die,” Eddie says, his voice hoarse. </p><p>Richie inches closer and goes back to rubbing circles on his back. “You’ll be okay, Eds. You might be tiny but you’re tough.” </p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says. “Oh god, I just want to die. I want to be dead.” He takes deep, wheezing breaths and then abruptly leans forwards again and vomits. </p><p>Richie squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe through the guilt. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. </p><p>Eddie dry heaves some more, his whole body shaking. Then he sits back again. </p><p>“Please stop that,” he says. </p><p>“Stop what?” Richie asks. </p><p>“The— ah, the rubbing. It’s too much.” </p><p>Richie pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. “Fuck, sorry.” </p><p>They sit in silence for a long moment, only disturbed by the low whine in the back of Eddie’s throat. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Richie says again when the silence threatens to choke him. </p><p>Eddie shakes his head and falls to the side heavily so he is lying on the grass, his cheek pressed into the ground. He curls in on himself and closes his eyes. </p><p>Richie stares at the side of his throat where his pulse is trembling underneath pale skin. </p><p>“Rich, can you…” Eddie’s voice is muffled against the grass. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>Eddie opens one eye and reaches out to grab Richie’s wrist. He tugs at it and guides it to the top of his head, then he lets go. Richie tries to wrap his head around what that means, around what he wants from him. </p><p>“Can you— Just— uh, here,” Eddie says. </p><p>Slowly Richie curls his fingers in his hair and starts to run them through it. He scrapes his nails along his scalp with all the gentleness he has in him and his breath trembles when he exhales. </p><p>Eddie closes his eyes again and they stay like that for a long time, until Richie’s legs go numb where they are crossed underneath him and he’s fairly sure Eddie has either passed out or fallen asleep. Only then does he allow himself to move his hand down to gently cup the side of his face, thumb running along the scar on his cheek. He holds his face in his palm like that for a long moment. Then he shakes himself out of it, gets up and grabs his hoodie so he can fashion it into a make-shift pillow and gently slide it underneath Eddie’s head. </p><p> </p><p>He sits there until Eddie wakes up. By then, the sun is inching closer to the tree tops and the last of Richie’s miserable high has worn off. </p><p>Eddie comes back to it with a soft groan and a flurry of quick blinks. Richie watches him as he attempts to lift his head and slowly comes up to a seated position. </p><p>“Hey, man,” Richie says and Eddie looks at him with glassed-over eyes. A little bit of colour is starting to return to his cheeks. </p><p>“Jesus Christ, shit,” Eddie says eloquently. He rubs his face and looks around, clearly disoriented. </p><p>“Yeah,” says Richie. He shuffles over to grab their bag and fishes out some cookies and Eddie’s Hydro Flask which they saved for last because it keeps the water cold for something ridiculous like 48 hours. He passes both to Eddie and says, “This should help. Since you fainted like a Victorian maiden.” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” Eddie tells him and takes a few sips of water. “I feel okay now.” </p><p>That loosen the tightly wound knot in the pit of Richie’s stomach, if only a little. He knew he would be, yet a loud part of him still feared Eddie might sustain some kind of lasting damage. </p><p>“I’m sorry, man,” he says. “I should’ve told you to pace yourself, you couldn’t have known that.” He nervously interlocks his fingers in his lap and squeezes again and again, trying to relieve some of the tension. </p><p>Eddie frowns at him. “Dude, it’s not your fault.” </p><p>“Isn’t it?” He looks down at some undefined point on the ground where grass is lapping at his legs like water. “I wanted to get stoned so I talked you into it and you then spent like half an hour throwing up and thinking you were gonna die?” </p><p>Eddie smacks him on the head with the sleeve of cookies he’s holding, suddenly thrumming with energy again. “I can make my own decisions, asshole! You didn’t make me do shit.” </p><p>Huh. Richie stares at him dumbly. He just spent two hours working himself into a panic, thinking that Eddie would never want to speak to him again and that he is a terrible friend, and this is what Eddie has to say about it? </p><p>“Uh, okay,” he says lamely. “I guess?” </p><p>“I can’t fucking believe you sometimes. You think you peer-pressured me?” Eddie laughs. “I’m forty-one years old, Richard, you cannot fucking peer-pressure me.” As if to prove some kind of point, maybe to Richie, or to his mom, he shoves an entire chocolate chip cookie into his mouth and as he chews, Richie can see nothing but smugness and a little defiance in the crinkles around his eyes. </p><p>Richie snorts. “Alright, sorry,” he says. “I will try not to question your free will in the future.” </p><p>“Damn right,” says Eddie and flops back down onto the grass, flat on his back. “Man, I am never smoking weed again.” </p><p>“It’s not the weed’s fault that you went insane and smoked way too much!” </p><p>“It sure felt like the weed’s fault,” Eddie says lightly.</p><p>Richie grins. “Maybe you should try edibles next time. They write the exact portion size on the packaging.” </p><p>“Do they do gluten free ones?” </p><p>“You’re not allergic to gluten, Kaspbrak. You’re eating a very gluten-full cookie right now.” </p><p>“Yeah, but gluten free is better for you,” Eddie shoots back and genuinely seems to believe that. </p><p>“Wow,” Richie says. “Do you also believe that drinking a turmeric and spirulina smoothie detoxifies your body? Sometimes people lie on the internet, you know?” </p><p>“No, I just like the taste.” </p><p>“Fuck off outta here, no one likes the taste of turmeric and spirulina. They both taste like ass and you know it.” </p><p>Eddie gestures towards him threateningly with the sleeve of cookies, which isn’t actually all that threatening coming from a man on his back. “Fine, I like the taste of the apple juice they blend it with.” </p><p>Richie laughs and stretches out languidly next to him, a safe few feet away. “You’d fit in so well in LA. It’s like you’re made for that place. Do you do Zumba and Pilates too?” </p><p>“Ugh, LA’s too hot,” Eddie says and ignores his question. </p><p>“You get used to it,” Richie shrugs. “You just need a place with good AC and a pool.” </p><p>“Maybe I’ll move in with Bill and Mike,” Eddie says thoughtfully. </p><p>“They live in a one bedroom apartment in Downtown with shit AC and absolutely no pool, not even a communal one. You don’t want to live there. His kitchen is <em> open-plan, </em>dude, if you slept on their couch you’d have to deal with Bill’s fucked up sleep schedule every day. You’d hate it.” </p><p>Eddie snorts. “Fine, not moving in with Bill and Mike then.” </p><p>“You’ll wanna move to Atwater Village, it’s the only neighbourhood worth a damn.” </p><p>“Don’t you live in Atwater Village?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Richie says and shrugs. “It’s a great place to be, that’s why I live there. You should check it out.” </p><p>“Alright, Rich,” Eddie says and when Richie looks over at him his smile is wide and genuine. </p><p>Richie reaches out to take another cookie from the packet. Between them they have nearly finished them all but he is still starving. They should get dinner soon, somewhere close by. Or maybe he can cook for Eddie at their apartment, show him that salad and dry omelettes don’t have to be his whole world. And besides, the best way to a man’s heart and all that — more than just a sexist idiom! </p><p>“I still want to try truffles tomorrow,” Eddie says suddenly and Richie blinks owlishly at him. </p><p>“Fucking hell, Eds,” he says and laughs. “You sure, dude?” </p><p>The line of Eddie’s jaw is staunch and defiant, daring him to try challenging him, and he looks so, so young. “Yeah, asshole. They’re completely different drugs. I want to try.” </p><p>“Alright,” Richie says and smiles at him, fond. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t cook for them in the end. They get takeaway bibimbap from a Korean place they stumble upon on their walk home and eat it at the small kitchen table tucked away by a window of their apartment, overlooking a canal. The water reflects the orange glow of streetlights, casting  whirling patterns on the stone walls of the canal, and the street beside the water is largely quiet save for the occasional cyclist weaving in and out between flower pots. </p><p>Since getting the speaker their AirBnBs have almost never been quiet, and tonight is no different. Jazz this time, the angular sounds of Thelonious Monk's piano labyrinths bouncing through the kitchen. Eddie's choice, but Richie is more than happy with it. It's not a pop kind of evening, and he is just content watching the way Eddie absentmindedly moves his head with the music as he eats his mirin pickled vegetables and takes slow sips of red wine. </p><p>They argue about who has to do the washing up, and they argue about what movie to watch on Eddie's laptop, and they argue about whether the top was still spinning and Cobb was still dreaming. Richie insists it doesn't matter, and Eddie gets so wound up about it that they end up reading two Screen Rant articles about it and watching a thirty minute video essay on Youtube, which doesn't bring them any closer to reaching an agreement. They are still arguing about it by the time they are brushing their teeth at the sink in the tiny bathroom despite the fact they can barely understand each other through toothpaste foam and over the noise of Eddie's electric brush. It is so close to the alternate universe that lives tucked away inside his ribcage that Richie can hardly stand it, and when they say goodnight in the hallway and go into their respective bedrooms it feels a little like a rug being pulled out from underneath his feet. </p><p> </p><p>Eddie is serious about the truffles. He even calls Mike to ask his opinion and the poor man picks up despite the fact that it is 2am in LA. Mike gets Bill to join him in the call, which is unsurprising since the dude never sleeps. Bill tells them about the few times he did acid in college and then again in his thirties, working through some kind of writer's block. </p><p>"It's not really like acid, though," Richie protests when Bill is threatening to go off on another tangent. </p><p>"Isn't it?" Eddie asks, eyebrows raised. </p><p>They are sitting on the living room floor with Eddie's phone set to speakerphone between them like middle schoolers working on a biology group project, and Eddie is taking notes in a little notebook like an absolute nerd. Richie watches him as he writes down 'not like acid' in his chicken scratch handwriting, circles it and puts a huge question mark next to it. </p><p>"Of course it's not," Mike says on the other end of the line, his voice tinny. "Sure, they are both psychedelics but they feel different."</p><p>Eddie nods like Mike can see him. "Alright. So how are they different?" </p><p>"Shrooms, or truffles I guess, are more introspective," Richie says. </p><p>Mike hums in agreement. "Ultimately what matters is that you are sure about it and you are in a positive headspace. So if you are having doubts or are feeling anxious about it it's best to stay away." </p><p>"Definitely don't take any if your gut is telling you not to, or you're stressed out," Bill adds. </p><p>Eddie frowns. "I'm always stressed out." </p><p>"Then maybe you shouldn't take any, man," says Mike. </p><p>Richie watches with faint curiosity the face journey that this takes Eddie on, cycling through indignation, doubt, panic, defiance, and then back through to indignation within the span of just a few seconds. </p><p>"I'm going to anyway," he says finally, his jaw set. "It'll be fine. I want to try it." </p><p>Mike laughs. "Alright, just make sure you think about nice things and that you're somewhere with great weather and nature." </p><p>"Set and setting," Bill says. </p><p>Eddie writes that down in his notebook with a determined little frown. </p><p>"I'll take good care of him," Richie tells them. "I will be on my best behaviour." </p><p>"There's a first time for everything, I guess," Bill says dryly. </p><p>He can hear something dropping on the floor in the background and Bill laughing, and then there's a moment of rustling before Mike comes back, his voice closer. </p><p>"We've gotta go to bed, it's getting late," he says. "Whatever you do, don't think about Pennywise." </p><p>"Eurgh, don't say his name!" Richie yells. "Now we're going to be thinking about nothing else!" </p><p>"Good night, guys! Thank you!" Eddie yells over Richie's yelling, and hangs up before they can say anything else. </p><p>He flops back against the side of the couch and drops his head onto the cushioned seat. "We're doing this," he says firmly. </p><p>"Whatever you want, Eds," Richie says and shrugs. "Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. I'm not too worried about it." </p><p>“Fine." Eddie lifts his head again and stares at him, his caterpillar eyebrows angrily drawn together. </p><p>"Fine," Richie says and grins at him. </p><p> </p><p>Truffles, just like the shrooms, taste like ass. Richie had the foresight to bring chocolate chip brioches to hide them in but even then the dry, dirty flavour still overpowers anything else. As he chews and chews, Eddie watches him like a hawk. His dose is still in the box they bought it in, his brioche untouched. </p><p>"Tastes like shit," Richie tells him and swallows. He breathes through the wave of nausea that hits him, looking up at the clear, bright sky. It passes. "But not as bad as your mom's—"</p><p>"Shut the fuck up," Eddie snaps, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence. </p><p>Richie grins at him. </p><p>"You wanna wait until I come up, Eds?" </p><p>"No," Eddie says and reaches for the box. </p><p>"Suit yourself.” Richie shrugs. He takes a few sips of his Fanta to get the taste out of his mouth. </p><p>Their doses were carefully weighed out by the shop clerk, some girl named Lotti with bright pink, braided hair and more piercings than Richie could count. She expertly talked them through everything they needed to know, and with every word the tense lines of Eddie’s shoulders softened. They came out of the shop feeling good about the world, proud owners of a small tin box with a hand-painted Mango tree on the lid and twenty-one grams of truffles inside. </p><p>Richie feels confident about it, knows that they choose a good spot and the dosage is reasonable and not insane. He has only ever had one bad trip, and that was nearly twenty years ago in a shady, dark apartment full of people he either didn’t know or didn’t like. That time he spent a terrifying half hour staring at his reflection in the bathroom while people banged on the door and yelled at him, and he was genuinely convinced his face was being eaten by maggots. In retrospect, neither his mental state at the time nor the shit house party he was at did anything to set a good tone for the trip and he should really have known better than to let himself be talked into it. </p><p>Now, on a sunny day in a beautiful city with his best friend, no repressed memories to haunt him and knowing that the clown is dead and gone, he isn’t too worried about a repeat of that experience. There are no freaky English majors around, no one is banging on any doors, and he trusts Eddie in a way he didn’t know he was capable of trusting anyone until last year.</p><p>He feels stupid and adolescent. He thinks that maybe this is what it would have been like to know Eddie when they were in college, doing stupid shit together like they did as kids except now with more illegal substances and fewer parents around to ground them. Wonders if they would have gotten along if they met in their twenties, or if Eddie would have hated his guts. At twenty, Richie was hosting a show on his college radio station that only around three people tuned in to every week, his closest friend was some dude named Aamir who lived on his floor and sold him weed, and he was about to drop out. He was a good eight years away from having his first paid stand-up gig, eleven years away from kissing a man while sober, twenty-one years away from feeling comfortable in his skin. At twenty years old, Richie was losing touch with his sister, only called his parents every three months, and couldn’t remember ever having real friends. So even if Eddie wanted to be his friend then, Richie probably wouldn’t have known how to be his. </p><p>“Anything happening yet?” Eddie asks and leans forward a little, looking at Richie with the Kaspbrak intensity he finds hard to bear, his eyebrows twisting upwards in the middle. </p><p>“Dude, it’s been like five minutes,” Richie says with a slight laugh. </p><p>“Right,” Eddie says, eyes still firmly fixed on his face like he can read things there that Richie won’t say out loud. </p><p>He squirms a little under the scrutiny. </p><p>“I’m going to take mine,” Eddie says then. He grabs the tin with a determined look on his face, pries off the lid and takes the sheer green plastic bag out. His dose is smaller than Richie’s — 8 grams to his 13 grams — because he weighs something like 40 pounds less than him and nearly died yesterday from one joint. </p><p>They both watched Lotti carefully weigh it out with gram scales, and she showed them the display to prove that she wasn’t messing them around. Not that Richie was worried since it was quite literally her job to give them the correct amount for their money, but he suspects it was more for Eddie’s sake than his since the guy had walked into the shop practically vibrating with anxiety.</p><p>“It’s gonna taste super gross, but no worse than your cooking,” Richie says. </p><p>“Ha ha, very funny.” Eddie rips open his brioche so he can sandwich the truffles inside. “You should try stand-up comedy, man, it would really give you an outlet for your subpar jokes.” </p><p>“Please, I know you’ve watched all four of my DVDs,” Richie replies, a little smug. </p><p>“Yeah, I watched them so I could give an informed opinion and my informed opinion is that you’re not funny,” Eddie says and takes a tentative bite of his brioche. Then another, braver one. His nose wrinkles in disgust and Richie is already unscrewing the cap of the Fanta bottle for him.</p><p>He eats the entire brioche with only minor complaints but once it’s all gone he dry heaves once, twice, and Richie thinks shit, there goes that, Eddie’s going to throw it all up again and he’s going to trip alone. </p><p>But Eddie keeps it down. He drinks some Fanta, then some water, and breathes deeply — in through the nose and out through the mouth. </p><p>“Well done, Eds.” </p><p>“Don’t be patronising, dickwad. It’s not a good look,” Eddie shoots back. </p><p>“Everything’s a good look on me,” says Richie. </p><p>Eddie scoffs and gestures to the canary yellow Hawaiian shirt Richie is wearing. It has palm leaves and parrots on it, and he loves it very much. </p><p>“My eyeballs would beg to differ,” he says. </p><p>Richie laughs and brushes imaginary dirt off of his shoulder. “Well, let them beg,” he says.  </p><p> </p><p>It takes another twenty minutes for anything to happen. They play some 60s &amp; 70s summer  playlist on Spotify with their speaker (which Richie has lovingly named Prudence) and sit on the picnic blanket that Eddie insisted on buying, with their selection of fruit and snacks arranged on the ground between them. </p><p>Eddie seems surprisingly relaxed, probably because of his three pages of research notes and their phone call with Mike and Bill. Or maybe because he trusts Richie, too. They talk about nothing at all and Richie feels loose-limbed and a little stoned, with nothing on his mind but the sun, Eddie’s dimples and the taste of artificial orange on his tongue. </p><p>The grass is starting to come alive around him, cascading in waves like the ocean letting itself be moved by the wind, and he watches it intently. In the air, the Beach Boys are telling him not to worry, baby. </p><p>“Huh,” he says and tears his eyes away from the gentle, green sea around him to look at Eddie. </p><p>“Yeah?” Eddie says and squints against the sun stood high in the sky behind Richie. </p><p>“Feeling it a little,” Richie says and smiles, wide and goofy. He feels good, light; he forgot what it’s like to breathe freely and feel connected to the earth beneath his palms. To shed a few layers of irony and love the world with his chest. </p><p>“Okay,” Eddie says and shifts. Richie watches as tension bleeds into his shoulders and marvels at the fact that he knows what that means now — can see the anxiety where even Eddie insists there is none. </p><p>“It’s really nice,” he says to reassure him and because it’s the truth. He doesn’t want to lie to Eddie, not after everything. Not any more than he already does. “Feels good.” </p><p>“Oh, okay,” Eddie says. “How long do you think I have?” Like getting high is a terminal illness. <em> Give it to me straight: How long have I got, doc? </em> He looks young and worried, but his jaw is set in the way it always is when he is feeling brave, when he’s saying to the world <em> I am Eddie fucking Kaspbrak and I’m not scared of you, I can do whatever the hell I want. </em>His dark, thick eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks and Richie can’t look away. He swears he can see whole storm clouds in the valley of his dimples. </p><p>“Yo, dude,” Eddie says and Richie blinks, trying to focus. </p><p>“Uh, maybe like ten minutes?” He checks the time on his phone. It’s been something like twenty-five minutes since Eddie ate his brioche and it has never taken more than forty-five for him to come up, personally. “Don’t force it. Think about something else. Like, uh, <em> Inception </em>?”  </p><p>“We are not starting that shit again,” Eddie says resolutely.</p><p>He watches as the colours of his phone lockscreen, him and Bill Lady and the Tramp-ing it up, become warped, small bursts of geometric patterns blooming on the lights in the background and the yellow of his shirt. His depth perception is completely thrown, so he has to look away when it becomes too dizzying. </p><p>When he looks back up Eddie’s face is pinched. </p><p>“Hey, Eds,” Richie says. “Everything is great. I feel great.” He wishes, not for the first time, that he was better at expressing himself. Wishes the things he feels and thinks would translate into coherent sentences rather than half-formed phrases and jokes. He can talk, and talk, but still he never says the things that matter. </p><p>“Okay,” Eddie says and his nostrils flare as he exhales sharply. “You’re staring at me, man.” </p><p>Richie laughs and stretches out his legs in front of him. “Yeah,” he says and studies the confused slope of Eddie’s mouth. “You look nice.” </p><p>For a moment, his thoughts form into a tight coil of <em> oh fuck, that was weird, that was so awkward, I’m such an asshole, I’m going to freak him out with it, </em>but then Eddie grins at him widely. </p><p>“Thanks,” he says. “Good to know.” It’s almost coy, the slight lift of his left eyebrow, the quirk of his lips. </p><p>Richie feels like his heart is going to jump out of his mouth and land in Eddie’s lap with a disgusting splat. He thinks that maybe he is flirting with Eddie Kaspbrak. He thinks that maybe he would like to keep doing it. </p><p>His thoughts bounce, jittery, around his head. It is hard to focus on anything in particular, so he lets the thunder of his heartbeat string him along as the world warps and pulses around him, he lets the jaunty rhythm of the second Beach Boys song of the playlist wash over his skin.</p><p>
  <em> (All summer long you've been with me) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I can't see enough of you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (All summer long we've both been free) </em>
</p><p>“I think maybe I’m feeling something,” Eddie says after a moment that stretches out like bubblegum, its original shape undeterminable. </p><p>“Could be indigestion from all the gluten,” Richie says. </p><p>“Fuck off.” Eddie holds his hand out in front of his face and looks at it intently, his fingers stretched wide. “I’m very pink.” </p><p>It’s the funniest shit Richie has heard all week. “Like a baby,” he says, giggling. “Eddie-baby. A little risk analyst baby in a suit.” </p><p>Eddie bursts into breathless laughter and doesn’t even tell him to fuck off, which must mean he’s high as shit. </p><p>Together, they stare at Eddie’s hand. The veins are moving like snakes across desert sand and Richie really wants to reach out and touch them, to feel their bite. </p><p>“Hm,” says Eddie. </p><p>“Mhm,” says Richie. </p><p>Eddie curls his fingers to form a fist and then stretches them wide again. He repeats the motion over and over and his hand is like a pulsing heart, just like the one Richie knows beats inside his chest, the thing that Pennywise couldn’t kill. </p><p>“This is what I thought being really stoned would feel like,” Eddie tells him. </p><p>“Yeah?” Richie hums. “Well, it could have been if you hadn’t nearly died.” </p><p>“I didn’t nearly die!” Eddie yelps. And then, quietly, “Right?” </p><p>He looks genuinely concerned and Richie reminds himself that this is his first psilocybin experience and he cannot go around freaking him out. </p><p>“No, man. You wouldn’t have died, your blood pressure was just crazy low and your body was a bit overwhelmed by that.” </p><p>“Okay,” Eddie says. He lowers his hand and runs it through the grass beside the picnic blanket. </p><p>Richie watches as the blades twist around his fingers, curious and open. </p><p>“One near death experience per year is enough for me,” Eddie continues.  </p><p>The dusting of dark hair on his fingers is like a sparse forest, fine branches swaying in the breeze. </p><p>“I don’t know what I would have done if you died, man,” Richie says without really meaning to. He can feel the cold metal of the hospital chair beneath him and for a few terrifying moments he is back there and the long, immovable beep of the EKG deafens him and nurses dart around the room saying something about crash carts and <em> get him out of here </em>. His hands grip tightly onto the arms of the chair, they can’t make him leave, Eddie needs him, he needs him, he— </p><p>Eddie’s hand is on his knee and he crash lands on a picnic blanket in Amsterdam. Richie takes deep, gulping breaths. </p><p>“And you don’t need to find out,” Eddie says. His thumb presses gently into the soft flesh of his thigh above the knee and Richie nods. “Since I will inevitably outlive you by like ten years because your diet sucks, you smoke, and you do cocaine like once a week, dude, what the fuck?” </p><p>Richie laughs and briefly puts his hand on top of Eddie’s. His skin is warm and sweaty against his knuckles. “Alright, Eds,” he says. “Let’s talk about something less depressing.” </p><p>He doesn’t trust himself to let go if he stays there any longer so he pulls his hand back and looks up at the tree tops to their left. Eddie lets go as well, and Richie misses the soft pressure instantly. </p><p>“How’s your sister?” Eddie asks after a minute of comfortable silence. </p><p>Richie snorts. “I said less depressing, dude.”  </p><p>“I didn’t know that was a depressing topic!” </p><p>“It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s not that bad,” Richie says, his gaze fixed firmly on the strange shapes that the leaves are morphing into up in the sky. Like stained glass art, they melt into each other and small, geometric bursts of colour paint them pink and red where the sun brushes them. </p><p>“She’s okay,” he says finally. “She lives in Austin and I haven’t seen her in nearly two years. Since mom died we haven’t had a reason to get together and neither of us really make the effort.” </p><p>The last time he called Chris they ended up shouting at each other down the phone. That was a few weeks after Richie returned from Derry, and a few days after he had missed Leon’s birthday for the third year in a row. </p><p>“She has a kid,” he says to Eddie. “Leon. He’s sixteen, I think.” </p><p>“No shit! Uncle Richie,” Eddie says and when Richie looks over he is grinning. </p><p>“Something funny, Kaspbrak?” </p><p>“I always knew you’d be a weird uncle,” Eddie says. </p><p>“I’m a pretty shitty uncle, man. I haven’t seen the kid since he was thirteen. His dad had him during the last Hanukkah we spent with mom, so I only saw him the year before.” </p><p>“You can change that, though,” Eddie says and he is looking intently at Richie. </p><p>He could get lost in it, he thinks. Could spend the next three hours studying every freckle on Eddie’s face, every speck of colour in his eyes, every wrinkle on his forehead. He wants to, so badly. Staring at Eddie Kaspbrak has always been the forbidden fruit. Touching him is almost easier — there are enough elaborate scenarios he can construct to give himself excuses to feel Eddie’s skin against his, like wrestling him when they were kids or patronising him now in some small way so he absolutely has to ruffle his hair for the sake of the bit. He can hide desire within these things without admitting to anything. But looking at him feels dangerous in a way that touching him doesn’t, like his gaze will overstay its welcome and Eddie will just know, will read him like an open book and fold the corner of his page so he can come back to it later, again and again. </p><p>“Richie?” Eddie says and shit, he can see teeth marks in the flesh of Eddie’s cheek like he took a chunk out of the apple. </p><p>He looks away. “Yeah, I want to.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Be a better uncle, I mean. I want to get back in touch, maybe visit them in Austin at some point or have them stay with me in LA. They’ve never been, you know? I’ve lived there for fifteen years now.” </p><p>“I think they would appreciate the effort,” Eddie says gently. </p><p>Richie nods and crosses his legs. His body isn’t what it used to be and sitting down for longer than ten minutes starts to become difficult once you hit thirty if the most exercise you get is walking to the corner shop every two days, so he can feel the strain in his back now. Maybe he should start doing yoga with Eddie. </p><p>“This isn’t what I expected,” Eddie says apropos of nothing and Richie looks over at him. It’s been around an hour since they ate the truffles so Eddie should be feeling the full effects by now. </p><p>Personally Richie is having a pleasant high. Everything looks surreal and vibrant, and he can feel the earth inhaling and exhaling around him in time with his own breath. He feels a little bit cracked open and he really would like to tell Eddie everything he feels and thinks but he knows that might not be such a good idea. </p><p>“Better or worse?” he asks. </p><p>“Just different. Less intense, I guess?” Eddie shuffles around and Richie watches him try to get comfortable. “I expected more Salvador Dalí, or Van Gogh. But I just can’t keep a train of thought going for the life of me. What the fuck were we even talking about a minute ago?” </p><p>“My sister,” Richie says with a slight laugh. </p><p>“Oh, yeah. I can’t focus.”  </p><p>“Yeah, that’s normal.” Richie watches a lady bug crawl along a blade of grass with intense curiosity. “Are you seeing anything?”</p><p>Eddie shrugs. “Kind of? No aliens, but I think the grass is breathing.” </p><p>Richie chokes on a high-pitched giggle and he gestures towards the little bug he is observing. “Look at her,” he says. “Just having a good time.”  </p><p>Eddie shifts closer and leans down to look. The bug makes its way to the top of the blade and then flutters over to a nearby one to begin a downward descent. It briefly dips below the ocean waves and then comes up again, then sits still for a long time. Eventually it adjusts its wings and flies away. </p><p>When Richie finally looks up again, Eddie is staring at him. He can see tiny, exploding stars in his eyes and in the corners of his mouth, and his lips are parted. A flash of pink tongue darts out to wet them. </p><p>“What?” he asks, voice a little strangled. </p><p>Eddie blinks slowly, like a chameleon studying its prey. For a moment, Richie can see his skin shift into bright green scales. </p><p>“You’re really handsome,” Eddie says and he sounds painfully earnest. </p><p>Richie gapes at him. He tries to come up with a joke in response, anything other than what he really wants to say which is <em> hey, are you straight? </em> and <em> do you wanna make out against that tree? </em> and <em> I’ve been in love with you for twenty-nine years.  </em></p><p>“Wanna go for a walk?” he says instead because there are no jokes left inside him. </p><p>Eddie nods his head and finally looks away, giving Richie the chance to catch his breath. </p><p>They pack up their snacks, speaker, and drinks which are lukewarm by now, and with great difficulty Richie manages to roll up the red picnic blanket into something that’s not just a crumpled up ball. </p><p>Richie makes Eddie down half a bottle of water so he doesn’t dehydrate. They help each other reapply sunscreen to their arms and face. His fingers are slippery against the back of Eddie’s neck. </p><p>They walk along the river further towards nature and away from the city. Whenever they come across any people they shy away from them like scared deer and come closer together, walking side by side with their arms touching as they swing. </p><p>It’s difficult to keep a coherent conversation going so they bounce from topic to topic, covering all sorts of strange ground. Walking makes everything a little less overwhelming and Richie finds it easier not to look at Eddie this way, marvelling instead at the world around them, every flower and weed, every mossy rock on the river bank, every butterfly and every tree they pass. Like a golden retriever he bounds around, watching as colours trail and explode on leaves, studying the deep valleys of the tree bark. Eddie indulges him completely. He points out shapes in the clouds, the way the light hits the berries on a blackberry bush just so. Every time Eddie gets too out of breath they stop and sit down for a while before continuing on, moving further and further away from the city. </p><p>At one point their conversation veers into dangerous territory that neither of them are prepared to deal with and Eddie freaks the hell out, gasping frantic breaths and staring at the sky, his mouth that of a stranded goldfish. Richie thinks of Mike that morning telling them not to talk about the clown and tries to trust his gut.  He hugs Eddie to his chest in a way that feels too much, tells him that they’re safe and that his hair smells nice, and they breathe together until it passes. </p><p>Mostly it’s just silly. Everything is somehow funnier and more entertaining than ever before. They spend god knows how long watching a mother duck teaching some ducklings how to dive and it keeps them going for a good half hour afterwards. For once, they don’t make fun of each other at all. When Richie spills Fanta down the front of his shirt Eddie doesn’t comment on it, just helps him dry it off with some napkins he found in the front pocket of his backpack. In return, Richie keeps his mouth shut when Eddie insists on reapplying sunscreen every thirty minutes, and even lets him be fussy about making sure he gets the spot behind his ears. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you think we were meant to know each other?” Eddie asks him later, lying stretched out in the high grass. “Like the universe plucked us out of thin air and into fucking Derry, of all places, just because we’d work well together?”</p><p>They are near a lock, surrounded by wild bushes and flowers, and Richie’s legs are aching from their long walk and he has no idea where they are. They have collectively decided that is a problem for sober Eddie and Richie to figure out. </p><p>“Maybe,” he says to Eddie. “Never thought about it like that. I’m not one for determinism.” </p><p>“I just think it makes sense. Maybe we were meant to be friends so that we could kill Pennywise.” </p><p>Richie shakes his head. “No way, man. We killed that bitch because we were hardcore as fuck and all of the adults in Derry were cowards. And then a second time because we are still hardcore,” Richie says. “Fate’s got nothing to do with it. That was a choice.” </p><p>“It’s not a choice that we should have had to make as kids though, is it?” </p><p>“Can’t change that now, Eds,” Richie says and rolls over onto his side so he can look at Eddie. They are close enough that if he were to reach out he could easily touch his face, his hands. </p><p>Eddie turns over as well and they look at each other for a long moment. The world is still vibrant but aside from the occasional blurred swirl of colour he can no longer see strange shapes all around him. </p><p>“I think I was supposed to die,” Eddie says and Richie inhales sharply. “I’m not sure why I didn’t.” </p><p>Richie reaches out, curls his fingers around Eddie’s wrist and his thumb comes to rest on his pulse. It beats steadily underneath. </p><p>“If you were supposed to die you wouldn’t be here now,” he says. “Things just happen the way they do and we live with that. Fuck fate. Fuck the universe.” </p><p>Eddie’s wrist twists out of his hold and his fingers wrap around Richie’s hand. Their palms are sweaty and too warm and it should be gross, but it’s the nicest feeling in the world. His heart  jumps inside his ribcage. </p><p>He doesn’t let go for a long time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie and Richie make choices, some good and some bad. Richie nearly gets into a fistfight with a bouncer. Eddie gets White Girl Wasted. The author tries to see how many things that they miss about their home town they can fit into one chapter.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter specific content warnings:<br/>Mentions of internalised homophobia. Mentions of substance abuse issues (specifically alcoholism and cocaine use). Excessive drinking. Mentions of canon-typical violence (Eddie's injury).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>On the drive from Amsterdam to Hamburg in their stupid, matte black Suzuki Vitara SUV that was definitely not his first choice of rental car, Richie nearly comes out to Eddie twice. The first time happens barely an hour in when Eddie asks him about his dating life in the genuine kind of way that Richie can never quite manage himself, like he really wants to know and Richie chokes on his Bounty bar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I know you have your bits about girlfriends and hook-ups and all that, but I know you don’t write your own shit and you never actually mention anyone to us,” Eddie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the gear stick, his thumb running absentmindedly along the glossy top of it which has been slowly driving Richie insane for the past fifteen minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dating apps, mostly,” he manages to say after a long moment of silence. It’s not a lie, more of a sidestepping of the whole truth — the fact that it's mostly Grindr these days. Eddie doesn't need to know that. “Not very successfully, if you can believe it. People really don't know what they're missing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not successful because of you or because of them?” Eddie glances over at Richie. They make eye contact for a split second before both looking away again. Richie coughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, a bit of both,” he says. “Mostly me, because they can’t handle the full Tozier package.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Some people are just freaks though.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, he admits in the privacy of his own thoughts, none of them are you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never really tried online dating,” Eddie goes on to tell him. “I don’t think it would be my thing. Actually, I’m not sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>dating</span>
  </em>
  <span> is my thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It really kinda sucks. Just a lot of small talk.” (A lot of dick pics.) “And then you meet them in person after a week of shitty conversation and find out that you really have nothing in common. So you fuck, leave early in the morning or hope that they do, and then you either ghost them or mutually decide to never speak again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like hell. Never had a one night stand and I don’t plan to start at forty-one, so if that’s all it is I guess I should delete Tinder off my phone” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, how proper of you. I always knew you’d be an eighteenth date kind of guy just like your mama. Though she did put out on the third for me because dick too bomb.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie smacks him on the arm so hard the sound rings out in the car and Richie just laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dick too bomb? Fucking dick too bomb, Dick?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, many have called it life changing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, your penis and my dead mother aside, you’ve not— uh, dated? As in seriously dated?” For some reason he seems flustered by the question now, as though he wasn't the one to bring it up in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wants to tell him, then. He wants to tell him about Vince, two years ago, who was so ashamed of the idea of being seen with him that they never once went on a date in public for the entire duration of their relationship — eight and a half miserable months followed by two months of post</span>
  <span>-</span>
  <span>breakup sex that they both insisted needed to stop happening. Vince, who was ten years younger, just as deep in the closet as Richie and damaged by intensely Catholic parents, who hated his jokes and didn’t like to look at him when they fucked. Who Richie thought he was in love with, but knows now he just hated himself too much to want better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to tell Eddie about Mateo from the bar in Chicago and Trevor in his living room. He wants to tell him about the guy from Grindr he met up with a few weeks before Europe who turned out to be an absolute freak and tried to piss on him without any previous discussion of it as a kink — Eddie would probably find that fucking hilarious, and disgusting, and they could laugh about it together. He wants to tell him about the first and only time he tried to have sex with a woman, Susie Cooper in college who picked her clothes off of his dorm room floor without a word and left unsatisfied and confused.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead he says, “No, not in a while. I'm not really a relationship kind of guy,” and he changes the topic. He has two more months to work up to it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The second time they are at a gas station somewhere just outside Hannover and Eddie is buying snacks for them while Richie hovers by the magazine section near the door. He is flicking idly through some German gossip rag, checking to see if he can spot anyone he knows in person.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets stuck on page twenty-three. Half of it is taken up by a story that is either about Ryan Gosling adopting a puppy or a scathing piece on animal abuse, he's about 60/40 on that. It’s the bottom left corner that stops him in his track, his thumb hovering over a low-res paparazzi photo of two men kissing on the beach. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Robbie Valentine flirtet im Urlaub mit mysteriösem Mann! Wer ist der Fremde mit dem Sixpack?</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ the sub-heading reads. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recognises Robbie even without the context, knows the pixelated shape of his profile, his neat, dark hair. They met on set for a sitcom that Richie back when Steve was trying to get him more acting gigs to, in his words, 'remind people you exist'. Robbie was vain, image-obsessed and a Hollywood guy through and through, but he was also incredibly friendly and thought Richie was hilarious. They dated for something like four weeks, more out of mutual horniness than anything else, and amicably broke it off when Robbie had to go to Vancouver to shoot the second season of his TV show. It was one of his more successful relationships of the past twenty years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie hasn’t heard from him in years and last time they spoke they were both miles deep in the closet — but clearly Robbie had fought his way out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like every time someone he knows comes out in Hollywood, Richie has to bite down on the bitter shell of jealousy and fear. The closet is getting emptier and he is getting older and maybe, he thinks, maybe it’s time for him to drag himself out as well. Now that he has friends who love him it matters a lot less what everyone else in the world thinks of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then again, it’s not just shame keeping him there. His entire stage persona is built on sexist girlfriend jokes and being a schlubby straight guy which means coming out to the world would also require shedding that skin and rebuilding himself in a way that he has never been brave enough to do. And yeah, he already had the semi-public breakdown that has been the subject of much online speculation since it happened — Richie has been on the forums, even though Bill tried to tell him not to. Aside from a vague press release and a scripted interview where he didn't actually reveal all that much, he hasn't addressed it. He has been doing small gigs and media appearances but he hasn’t even started working on his next proper set, too paralysed by the idea of creating something honest and real now that he has the space to do so, having single-handedly created that space by forgetting his own name on stage. Sure, art and performance is all about presenting your truth and letting people engage with that in any way they will, but how is he meant to ‘present his truth’ when he doesn’t even know what that is, how can he be proud when his entire career is built on flagellating himself on stage for laughs, to convince people he is worth something? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t have any Pringles so I got these instead,” Eddie says, appearing by his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie tosses the magazine down onto the stack he picked it up off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie peers down at it. “You checking to see if people in Germany give a shit about you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he wants to tell him again, just like he wanted to tell him in the car. The words are bubbling in his chest like hot lava threatening to spit out of him as he stares down at Gwyneth Paltrow smiling on the cover of the magazine, her teeth impossibly white. They have the same dentist in Downtown </span>
  
  <span>— he knows this because he one spent forty minutes getting increasingly agitated in the waiting room while someone was holding up Dr. Chaudhri and it turned out to be her, not because he’s a stalker </span>
  
  <span>—  but his teeth are not nearly as pearly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie touches his arm just below his elbow. “You alright, man?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Richie says and snatches the bag of chips from his hands. “These look shit. I bet Germans don’t know how to do snacks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only one way to find out,” Eddie says and herds him back to the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie doesn’t tell him then, either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They spend two days in Hamburg in a very trendy apartment with modern art pieces arranged all over the space that leave Richie constantly on edge, paranoid he will knock them over. He doesn’t know shit about art but they look expensive, and he doesn’t want to shell out for replacements and get Eddie a bad review on AirBnB. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drink their way through the red light district, look at a scaled down version of Hollywood at the Miniatur Wunderland, eat ice cream at the Alster, and drink overpriced coffee at a roastery in an old, converted warehouse nearby that Eddie insists is some of the best coffee he has ever had. Richie gets horrifyingly seasick on a ferry to Finkenwerder that was entirely Eddie’s idea, and he has to spend half an hour sitting down on the curb with his head between his knees after they disembark until his stomach settles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve fallen into some sort of travelling rhythm together. Eddie gets up before him every morning and does his hour of yoga, and by the time Richie rolls out of bed and into the kitchen there is hot coffee on the counter and Eddie is freshly showered, shaved and moisturised, sitting at the table with his laptop and some form of breakfast in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They spend their days ticking off boxes on Eddie’s list of sights and activities, and Richie is just happy to go along for the ride. Sometimes they split up in the afternoon if there’s some high-end shop that Eddie wants to check out but Richie wouldn’t be allowed in with his graphic tees and socks in Birkenstocks, and so he finds something else to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie doesn’t come out to him and that’s fine. There is still time to be brave later. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On their first night in Berlin they go to see the new Spiderman movie at the cinema. They share a massive bucket of popcorn and get shushed by a very serious looking man with a fisherman beard two rows in front of them and spend the next five minutes giggling uncontrollably, like it’s middle school and Miss Pilar just told them off for passing notes back and forth. Something about Eddie makes him revert back to his teenage years and he wants to impress him just as badly now as he did then, and if that means risking getting kicked out of what is actually a pretty decent film then he’ll take his chances.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They bicker about everything from Richie’s fashion choices to Eddie’s questionable navigation skills. Most nights they go out drinking which Eddie keeps insisting isn’t healthy and yet he never once says no when Richie suggests it. They disagree on most things and agree on some, they watch movies on Eddie’s laptop and brush their teeth together and sometimes Richie cooks for him and sometimes they go out for dinner. They cross off more of the thirty-six questions and Richie learns that if Eddie lived to ninety years old he would rather retain the body of a thirty year old than to retain the mind of a  thirty year old because the physical impacts of old age freak him out (question six). He learns that Eddie doesn’t have a clue how he will die but he hopes it’s not cancer (question seven), they argue about what traits they have in common until finally settling diplomatically on humour, stubbornness and good taste in movies (question eight), and Eddie tells him that the thing he feels most grateful for in his life are his friends (question nine), which Richie thinks is actually really sweet but mocks him for anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is easier than he ever thought it would be. They’ve fallen into step with each other quickly and seamlessly, even without Mike there to oil the cogs (and how’s that for a euphemism), and Richie thinks that maybe he can live the rest of his life like this —  always on the verge of a love confession but never quite getting there, always moments away from touching his hand, being close to him in the same way he was close to him when they were children. Richie’s happy ending can just be getting to be Eddie Kaspbrak’s best friend and maybe that’s okay, maybe it doesn’t need to be anything more than that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In Berlin, everyone speaks English and they meet more American expats than they do actual Germans. Seemingly every person they get talking to is a street photographer and environmentalist who brews their own craft beer, and everyone else defines themselves solely on the fact that they are none of those things, forming an entirely new subgroup of anti-artists and anti-eco-freaks who are almost more annoying than the people they’re defining themselves against. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Purely by accident they spend their weekend in the city eating more vegan meals than not, stopping for plant-based döner kebabs and soy ice cream as they wander through the sunny, graffitied streets and make fun of people’s fashion choices — although Eddie argues that Richie is throwing rocks inside a glass house with that one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s duffle bag is beginning to burst with eye-sore t-shirts and button downs and despite the fact he can’t get the zipper on the main pocket to fully close he keeps finding himself giving in to the siren call of thrift shops of which Berlin has so many. Eddie takes to setting a ten minute timer on his phone and waiting outside  like the stereotype of a disgruntled husband. Once the ten minutes are up he comes inside and forcibly drags Richie out of the shop, repeating again and again that he would like to see more of Berlin than the inside of secondhand clothes stores. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry that you don’t understand my passion for beautiful clothes,” Richie says on their third and final day in the city as he is being manhandled out of a three-story secondhand and antiques store. He made it to floor two before getting caught. “Your world may consist of polo shirts and business slacks but some of us are trying to actually do something with our god-given beauty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you think that wearing fucking cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstocks is accentuating your ‘god-given’ beauty then I’m gonna have to get Bev on the phone for an intervention.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, Eds, you think I’m beautiful?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck— When the fuck did I say that, asshole, are you losing your mind?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You talked about my god-given beauty!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie throws his hands up in despair. “It was a direct quote! </span>
  <em>
    <span>From you!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but it felt like you really meant it,” Richie coos and winks at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie turns bright red and walks a little faster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That night, their last night, Richie decides they need to try getting into Berghain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t even like techno,” Eddie says, gesturing towards him with his chopsticks, and then he picks up a strip of beef out of his bowl. They are at a restaurant that is said to serve Berlin’s best ramen and halfway through his bowl of Tonkotsu Richie can’t argue with the assessment, and not just because this is the only ramen he has ever eaten in Berlin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not about the music, it’s about the experience,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m pretty sure it’s about the music, dude. They don’t let people in who have no actual interest in techno.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, Eds. Buncha hot pieces of ass like us? I’m sure they’ll let us in for appearance’s sake alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “I think you are overestimating our physical appeal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>underestimating </span>
  </em>
  <span>our physical appeal, actually.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They don’t get into Berghain. After queueing for the better part of an hour outside of the massive concrete block of a building, shuffling along the length of the chain link fence, the bouncer takes one look at them and says no. He’s an intimidating looking guy with grey hair pulled back into a bun, two massive rings through his lower lip and a bar through his septum, and barbed wire tattoos snaking across the side of his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite this, Richie will not be so easily deterred. He tries kicking up a fuss, pulling the celebrity card, making up some bullshit about how much techno means to him, and when none of those strategies work he simply points at Eddie and says, “He’s hot, right? Look at that badass scar. This man has seen some shit!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is hissing “Richie, stop,” and pulling at his arm to try and get him to leave but Richie plants his feet firmly on the ground and stays put. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He nearly died last year,” he continues, unfazed. “This was his dying wish! He pulled me close and whispered ‘please, God, I can’t die before I get to see my favourite techno artist live at Berghain’.” He gestures to Eddie’s chest with his hand. “There was blood spurting out of the massive wound where he got impaled by the leg of an evil space alien clown spider, and all he wanted was to see, uh, Ben… Klock? Yeah. Him. You’re going to deny a dying man his final wish?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I am,” the bouncer says with a thick, German accent. “Leave now, or I will make you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine!” Richie lets Eddie drag him away this time but not before turning around on his heel and yelling “See you in hell, motherfucker!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate you so much.” Eddie’s fingers are digging into the flesh of his wrist like angry claws. “You’re so fucking embarrassing. I can’t let you out of the house, I swear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie just laughs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They end up going to a self-proclaimed ‘Oldies Night’ at a nearby club in Friedrichshain. The ‘oldies’ label stings a little, given the fact that most of the songs are from the 80s, but it’s busy enough to look like a good time but dingy enough from the outside that they know the drinks on offer won’t just be novelty cocktails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re oldies, man!” he shouts into Eddie’s ear while they’re waiting to be served at the crowded bar. “Can you believe it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’re at least a decade older than everyone else here!” Eddie shouts back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs loudly in his unfortunate, high-pitched way and puts his arm around Eddie’s shoulder. He pulls him close, feeling the warmth of him against his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s great! We’re so down with the kids!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the stressed out looking bartender finally comes to take their order Richie reaches into the inner pocket of Eddie’s jacket and fishes out his wallet to pay, somewhat accidentally feeling up his chest in the process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you poor, asshole?” Eddie snaps and untangles himself from Richie. He grabs for the wallet and Richie childishly holds it up high so he can’t get it. Instead of trying to reach it Eddie snakes his arm around him and roughly pulls Richie’s own wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s not sure if he imagines the way his hand lingers on his ass and he really doesn’t know what to do with that information. He watches as Eddie takes a 10€ note from his wallet, slaps it down onto the sticky glazed wood of the bar and avoids making eye contact with Richie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They take their beers and fight their way over to a less populated area of the dance floor. Eddie goes in front because he is a lot more ruthless when it comes to pushing people out of the way without so much as an ‘entschuldigung’ and Richie just holds on to the back of his jacket, letting himself be dragged through the crowd and protecting his beer from getting knocked out of his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie hasn’t gone clubbing much in the last decade but he has gotten wasted at countless LA house parties of varying quality and aside from the cleanliness of the bathrooms and the price of the drinks there really isn’t that much of a difference. The crushing weight of sweaty bodies around him feels familiar and having Eddie there with him puts this experience at least one or two levels above any party in LA. Having Eddie there means he doesn’t have to make small talk with people he doesn’t like or doesn’t know at the bar and in the bathroom, means he can lean over and shout in his ear about people being dickheads, the state of the urinals, the quality of the music whenever he wants, rather than getting into a passive aggressive fight with random Hollywood hot shots who try to give him tips for his stand-up or patronise him in some other way. It also means he isn’t high out of his mind and doesn’t lock himself in the bathroom to cry at least once like he normally would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t sure how it happens but they stay until 2am and dance only semi-ironically, grabbing each other’s arms whenever and laughing whenever they recognise the first few notes of a song. The flashing neon lights blind him, his ears are ringing from the sheer volume of the music and the more loose-limbed he gets the easier it is to pull Eddie close and dance with him instead of at him. At one point he rests his hand on the small of Eddie’s back and leans forward to dip him as low as they can go, like it’s 1922 and they’re ballroom dancing instead of 2017 and they’re shuffling awkwardly in a dingy Berlin nightclub. He nearly drops him because he has never lifted a weight in his entire life and he’s pretty sure he pulls a muscle in his back but it’s worth it for the beetroot shade Eddie’s face takes on and the way he laughs until he is hiccuping as Richie pulls him back up even though he’s clearly trying to be angry at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Throughout the night, Eddie keeps grabbing cheap shots off the trays the club staff are carrying around. Richie finds this funny at first but then it starts to become worrying around the time Eddie begins to have trouble standing and by the time they leave Eddie is slurring his words and has to lean heavily on him so he doesn’t fall over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie slings an arm around his waist to keep him upright as they stumble along the street. He has never seen him this drunk and they have spent the last two weeks drinking almost daily. In fact, he can’t imagine Eddie ever having been this drunk in his entire life. From what he knows about his college experience and his marriage shortly thereafter, Eddie was never a reckless drinker, at first because he was too worried about the many diseases caused by alcoholism and then later because Myra would tut and have words, saying shit like ‘I thought you were better than this, Eddie’ and ‘you’re not the man I married’ and ‘I barely recognise you like this’. Okay, maybe that last bit is Richie projecting his disdain for her onto memories that are not his own, but it’s not completely baseless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’re you holding up, Spaghetti?” he asks gently and hoists Eddie up a little higher when his feet tangle underneath him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sharp, orange glow of streetlights cast dramatic shadows on Eddie’s face, underneath his eyes and in the dip of his dimples. He looks gaunt and feverish, his cheeks flushed red. “‘M fine,” he says and turns his head to look at Richie. Behind the glassed over sheer on his eyes he can see stubborn defiance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re hammered, dude.” Richie curls his fingers around the slight curve of Eddie’s waist and holds onto the fabric of his jacket — tells himself it’s in the name of keeping him from falling and not for any other reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So ‘re you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, not really. I can walk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha’ever. Don’t have to pater— uhh, patronise me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not patronising you, buddy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A group of teenagers stagger past them and Richie narrowly avoids shoulder checking one of them by accident, pressing closer against Eddie in the process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you— you’re buddying me. I know things.” Eddie taps his nose with his index finger like a cartoon detective finding a clue. It’s adorable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m ‘buddying’ you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Eddie says, comically popping the ‘p’. “Buddy, ’s what you call me when you think I’m fragile. ‘m not. Fragile.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie tries to think back on the past two weeks to see if there’s truth to that. It’s not something he has ever consciously paid any attention to — he just calls Eddie whatever safe, platonic nickname comes to mind — so he can’t say whether it’s true or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you’re fragile, Eddie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone does.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, I literally do not. I’ve seen you survive getting impaled by a giant spider leg. I do not think you’re fragile.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why do you always </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>at me like that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie blinks, taken aback. “Like what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pulls back a little to look at him. His face does a complicated thing, eyes dark and wide, his lips pinched. Richie really has no idea what he means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no idea what you mean,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget it,” Eddie mumbles and turns his head away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they walk, the weight of him becomes heavier against his side and the iron wrought grip Eddie has on his shirt loosens. Pretty soon Richie is dragging him along more than he is helping him walk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not— Eddie, are you falling asleep on me right now?” He shakes him a little, but gently so he doesn’t make him nauseous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Eddie lies and his head thumps against Richie’s collarbone. He can feel his breath hot and damp through his t-shirt, and it reminds him sharply that Eddie isn’t the only one who got drunk tonight. He’s been holding it together for the sake of getting them home without either of them puking on the side of the road but that third shot of Cuervo Gold is catching up with him right about now. His face feels red hot and his thoughts are lagging a few feet behind them, crawling along the pavement. Against him, Eddie smells faintly of sweat and booze and aftershave, one of those expensive ones with a custom scent that he probably spends something like 200 bucks on every year. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie,” he says, delayed. “You can go to sleep in like fifteen minutes. Work with me here, buddy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Again with the buddy,” Eddie just grumbles in response. Richie can feel his mouth move against the fabric of his shirt and it’s making him feel unhinged. Just a few inches and it would be on his bare neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for the first time that night he wishes he had brought his cigarettes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Buddy. C'mon, man. Let's power through, we're almost home." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You’re always so— you make things really hard." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You. Things— they're hard." Eddie's hand slides down and lands on Richie's hips. He hooks his thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. "You kill me, man. Fuck." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie tries not to think too hard about what that means. He thinks that maybe he owes it to the Eddie of tomorrow morning to not dig any deeper into it, that if he wants Richie to know whatever the fuck it is he's trying to communicate with him then they can have that conversation later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you want me to carry you?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll kill you, Toush— Tozier." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manhandles Eddie into something resembling an upright position and together they make their slow way home, past late-night kebab shops and bars that are still bustling with life, their smoking areas sprawling out onto the streets like overgrown bushes. Eddie is half asleep and mumbles nonsense into his side yet somehow finds it in him to complain loudly about lung cancer every single time a nearby cloud of cigarette smoke even so much as wafts in their direction, in response to which Richie just walks faster and avoids eye contact with people on the street. Neither of them would do well in an alfresco bar fight and he doesn't want to take any chances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their apartment is up four sets of stairs inside an old brick building with no elevator so it takes them a good five minutes just to make it to their front door. Richie untangles himself from Eddie, fumbles the keys and struggles to get the door open, its un-oiled hinges protesting loudly against the weight of his shoulders as he pushes into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once it’s open, Eddie stumbles into the hallway and collapses against the nearest wall. Richie finds the light switch in the dark and flicks it on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's get you into bed, Kaspbrak," Richie says and it really doesn't even sound that dirty but somehow his heart stumbles over it regardless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks at him with glassy eyes, his face flushed red and his mouth open slightly. Richie is suddenly very aware of how close they are standing in the narrow hallway, only a few inches of space between them, so easily bridged. He licks his lips nervously and Eddie's eyes follow, and he knows then that within the next twenty seconds he will either lurch forward to kiss him or throw up right here on the floor of their apartment. Like a crossroads his two options stretch out before him. There is no secret third path, no middle ground. He wonders idly what Eddie will do in response, and he imagines that his reaction to both scenarios will probably be similar but that  doesn’t change the inevitability of it all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shoes," Eddie grunts, slicing through his thoughts like a knife through butter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's mouth is dry. His throat clicks when he swallows. "What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Need to take off my shoes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." He blinks. The nausea fades, the urge to kiss him stays but flows back into the thrumming stream of consciousness at the back of his head. Right. Eddie needs him to be level-headed. Eddie is so wasted he can’t walk in a straight line. Eddie needs a responsible friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, okay,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As though he isn't forty years old, he sinks down onto his knees in front of Eddie and tries not to think about the connotations. He loosens the tongue on both of Eddie's obnoxious black leather derby shoes and nudges his left leg until he gets the hint and lifts it. With one hand behind the heel he slips the shoe off of his foot and his knuckles brush the arch of it as he does. Eddie makes a strangled noise above him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aw, you ticklish?" Richie looks up and grins at him, wide and toothy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is staring at him with dark eyes and when Richie runs his fingers along the underside of his foot to annoy him he doesn’t laugh. He makes another small noise at the back of his throat, a whine, and he just keeps staring. Before, he just looked out of it. Now there’s something else in the lines of his mouth, his brows, something that Richie can’t read. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie lowers his gaze, feeling hot all over. It takes all of his willpower not to look up again while he takes off Eddie’s right shoe and sets it carefully down next to the other one. His head is swimming with booze and barely repressed want — for what? Anything, anything. He doesn’t move to get up, certain his legs will buckle underneath him if he tries, and instead he simply kneels there, ignoring the strain in his legs, his lower back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eddie’s hand comes to rest lightly on his head and his whole body jerks forwards in response. He stares at a fold in Eddie’s jeans above his knee, transfixed, as fingers brush gently through his hair. Gently, like touching something precious, Eddie’s fingers trail down to run along his cheek, the shape of his jaw, until curling around his chin a little clumsily. Richie takes the hint and tilts his head back to look up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above him it’s still Eddie, drunk out of his mind and flushed red. His eyebrows are furrowed, he looks disoriented and whatever this is, whatever is going on right now, Richie cannot take advantage of it. Despite the small, crazed voice at the back of his head telling him he could — telling him he should. Telling him to stay here at the very least and kneel in front of him a little longer, maybe touch his calves, study the shape of his thighs, his hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich,” Eddie says and his voice is hoarse. His thumb comes to rest on Richie’s lower lip and Richie wants to dart his tongue out to lick it more than he has ever wanted anything in his life. He feels like the room is burning, like his face is burning and — he can’t. Not like this, not ever. He pulls his head back slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get you into bed,” he says again, more for his sake than Eddie’s. “You need to drink some water and go to sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s hand falls away from his face and Richie takes deep, desperate breaths. He struggles to his feet, his knees and spine protesting painfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, Eds.” He takes hold of Eddie’s arm and pulls him in the direction of the bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they make it to the bed, Eddie is halfway out of his jacket but has one arm still stuck in it so Richie helps him take it off like a well-mannered gentleman. He hangs it on a hook on the back of the door. When he turns back around Eddie is lying face first on the bed, his feet dangling over the edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Water, Eddie,” Richie says loudly. “Just need you to stay awake for like another minute, okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie makes an unintelligible noise in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie goes into the kitchen, pours a glass of water and downs half of it himself in a fit of desperation. He allows himself a second to lean on the kitchen counter heavily, his heart going a mile a minute and his head spinning, and then he fills up a fresh glass and returns to Eddie’s room not feeling any calmer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down on the edge of the bed gingerly and touches Eddie’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie groans. He stirs but only a little, shuffling along the mattress like a caterpillar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll just leave it on the side,” Richie tells him. He cannot deal with any more touching, with Eddie twisting and turning in bed. He sets the glass of water on the bedside table. The digital clock on the side reads 03:07 AM, definitely time for both of them to go to sleep. They have to check out of the AirBnB at 11am tomorrow morning and Richie hasn’t even packed yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Eddie,” he says into the quiet of the room. All he gets in response is a light snore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets up, careful not to jostle the bed too much, and turns off the light on the way out. The door falls shut behind him with a soft click. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alcohol usually knocks him out as soon as he gets home, but tonight he feels too wired to sleep. He paces the length of the living room a few times and then goes out to have a cigarette on the tiny balcony. The air is cold against his forehead, dampened by sweat, and it helps to sober him up. Out there, overlooking the glowing streets below and the jagged skyline stretching out in front of him his head feels clearer than it has all night. He exhales grey smoke into the air and as he watches it curl upwards into the dark sky he thinks about the look on Eddie’s face in the hallway, the heat in the pit of his stomach, the warm callouses of his hand on his face. He has no idea what he is doing or what it all means, and for the first time that month he thinks softly that maybe Eddie doesn’t either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In line at the pharmacy the next morning Richie shifts back and forth on his feet and tries desperately not to throw up. Although Eddie came to Europe with all the contents of a well-stocked medicine cupboard in his suitcase they somehow don't have any painkillers between them. Their check-out time is in an hour and when he left the apartment ten minutes ago Eddie was on the bathroom floor, bent over the toilet and sweating tequila out of every pore in his body. Richie isn't sure how they're going to make it to Warsaw by nightfall but he knows that he will have to be the one driving the car because chances are Eddie will be clutching a bucket in the backseat and hanging his head out of the window like a dog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he makes it to the front of the line he finds himself face to face with what must be the only person in Berlin who doesn't speak any English. After an unsuccessful minute of communicating mainly with hand signals, the woman asks "Spanish?" in a hopeful, last ditch attempt and Richie breathes out a sigh of relief. He can do Spanish, at least enough of it that he can ask her for some electrolytes and painkillers. Having worked under a Mexican chef for two years, and spent the majority of his twenties rooming with a Puerto Rican dude in a shitty two bedroom in Chicago, he has a good enough grasp of the Spanish language that he can confidently order food, talk about video games and call someone a useless piece of shit in at least twelve different ways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the common language established, he manages to be out of the pharmacy with everything he wanted within less than two minutes. He hurries back to the apartment and up the four nightmarish flights of stairs, his legs protesting all the way up to the front door. He thinks, once again, that he really is too old to go clubbing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in the apartment, he makes a beeline for the bathroom and gently raps his knuckles against the wooden door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eddie? You alive, buddy?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a faint groan from inside. Then, a quiet and miserable, "Unfortunately, yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie opens the door and pokes his head in. Inside, Eddie is sitting on the floor with his back against the bathtub. He is holding onto his Hydro Flask for dear life, white-knuckled and shaking, and his face is shining with sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fucking hell, dude. You look like shit," Richie says and crouches down in front of him. "I got electrolytes and aspirin here. We should really get some food in you as well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't want to think about food for the next 48 hours." Eddie grabs the small paper bag with the blue pharmacy logo printed on it. "Thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stays crouching on the floor. He watches as Eddie pops two pills out of the packet and swallows them dry, staring at the long column of his throat like a man possessed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry about last night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks. Eddie looks intensely embarrassed to even be saying this and is refusing to make eye contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie reaches out to squeeze his knee but doesn't linger. "It's fine, dude, happens to the best of us. You were slamming that tequila back like a 6 foot 4 heavy-weight boxer, no wonder it got you bad."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck you. Help me up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a loud creak of his back, Richie gets to his feet. He holds his hand out for Eddie and pulls him to his feet, their palms warm and sweaty against each other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While Richie finishes packing Eddie cleans the kitchen and bathroom in a burst of hungover motivation (an entirely alien concept to Richie). They struggle down the stairs to load everything into the car and then back up to double-check that everything is clean and nothing has been forgotten. Just after 11am Eddie locks the door behind them and slides the key through the letterbox like the check-out instructions said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie still feels like shit and Eddie looks it, too, in a Victorian orphan dying of influenza kind of way, but at least they have a few hours before they absolutely need to hit the road so they find a nearby café to waste away in until then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hangover starts to clear up a little around noon but all that means is that his nausea is replaced by a tight feeling of anxiety wound around the memory of last night and the implications they might carry. The idea of it walks in circles around his head as he picks at his bacon and egg sandwich with numb fingers. For once neither of them are talking which in and of itself counts as a symptom of a serious physical illness, and Richie would really just like to sit and enjoy the quiet but that has never been his forte. The silence between them gives him far too much space to think, to hope, to wonder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his knees, Eddie's fingers around his chin, his gaze on him heavy as oil. The dull ache of his knees on the parquet floor, Eddie’s thumb on his lower lip like a question Richie didn’t know the answer to. It's difficult not to let himself think that maybe Eddie wanted something then, that he might also want it when he’s sober. The possibility lies heavy in his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All his life, even the years he forgot, wanting Eddie has been as familiar as his childhood room. Before he had the words for it Richie knew the patterns that pushed and pulled him in the direction of Eddie, way before he had the guts to face his reflection and acknowledge what that meant. He knows now that every dark-haired, bambi-eyed, mile-a-minute man he ever wanted, be it strangers on the subway, a little less than strangers at a bar, or Robbie fucking Valentine, were ill-fitted attempts to fill in the shape of Eddie Kaspbrak inside his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course the thought that Eddie might feel the same has crossed his mind. Richie didn’t spend his teenage years over analysing every single conversation, touch, note passed in class, or mixtape exchanged to not let that thought cross his mind. It not only crossed his mind but has lived there for thirty years, a hopeful little thing. </span>
</p><p><span>And yet, just the same, there have always been more than just a few things keeping that idea contained. Eddie was married to a woman for over a decade. Eddie has never once expressed interest in a man in any tangible way. Eddie has always had a lot of unflattering things to say about Richie’s physical appearance, and on top of that Richie looks the way he looks, the unfortunate overbite, wonky eye, receding hairline, and muffin top were not just jokes but the physical reality of being a middle aged man who never quite grew out of his dorky looks. And that isn’t just self-deprecation</span> <span>— it’s not! He has scored enough hot people to know he’s not a complete Quasimodo-looking bitch, but there’s a difference between some guy who finds him attractive in the low light of a dive bar and his childhood friend who has seen him anxiety vomit all over himself during an English Lit group presentation, who has known him through all of his awkward, uncool, coke-bottle glasses and knobby-kneed years which lasted well into his teens — the glasses didn’t go until college. </span></p><p>
  <span>But there was something there last night and Richie is desperate to poke it with a stick. He wants to know if Eddie is thinking about it too, wants to know what could have happened if he had been selfish enough to let it. And yeah, maybe it was nothing at all. There’s at least a 80% chance that Eddie doesn’t remember anything beyond leaving the club, and Richie is too scared of the answer to ask him for it. Besides, he has always had a difficult relationship with letting himself hope for things. A tendency to ignore the warning signs in order to throw his miserable heart, unguarded, into some stranger’s lap. Maybe the best he can hope for is to get one drunken, heat of the moment press of chapped lips against his and then never speaking about it again. Richie would take it, of course he would, but it’s probably better for his soul if nothing happens at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he picks at his sandwich, looks at Eddie’s ashen face and wills himself to think about literally anything but his fingers around his chin and the wooden floor beneath his knees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I never used to drink when I was with Myra.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and they are a few miles past the border control point on the Odra between Germany and Poland. Eddie is eating dried mango in the passenger seat and hasn’t thrown up since they stopped at the side of the road near Fürstenwalde about an hour ago so things are looking up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She didn’t let you?” Richie turns the volume on the car’s stereo down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course she let me, she just had a way of convincing me she knew what I needed better than I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like she didn’t let you, dude.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “I guess. I just never felt like I had a choice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm,” Richie says helpfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before Derry,” Eddie continues, “everything felt so final. I could see my entire life laid out neatly in front of me and even though I didn’t like what I saw I never thought there was anything I could do to change it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a brief pause as he chews on some more mango. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doing my undergrad at NYU wasn’t a choice, even if maybe it felt like one at the time. Doing the M.Sc in Risk Management straight after wasn’t a choice either. Doing the internship at Granville &amp; Co., marrying Myra, getting the job, buying a house in Douglaston because of the low crime rate and because Myra liked the suburbs </span>
  <span>— those weren’t choices. They were just things that happened to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie nods. He’s not sure where Eddie is going with this, or what it has to do with drinking, but he would really like for him to keep talking. He tries to imagine Eddie living in the suburbs with a wife and picket fence, making small talk with the neighbours over neatly trimmed hedges and mowing the lawn in cargo pants and a polo shirt. It makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and not just because of his inherent disdain for wealthy middle class suburbia but because of how fundamentally wrong it felt for Eddie, who threw a fence post into Pennywise’s gaping mouth and stabbed Henry Bowers through a shower curtain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now that I’m regaining control of my life I have to make choices every single day and it honestly fucking sucks. It’s scarier than any clown. I choose to eat greasy food, and sometimes I take the subway instead of an Uber, and twice a month I volunteer at a soup kitchen even though I hate talking to people I don’t know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stabs angrily at the button on the side of the door to roll the window down. The wind whips loudly against the car and ruffles Richie’s hair into even more disarray than it was already in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eddie goes on, “But I— shit, this probably doesn't make any sense, but I feel like maybe this is just another way that choices are being made for me. Because I don’t actually want to take the fucking subway — I really hate the fucking subway, Rich —  but I do it because I never used to be able to. So in a way, isn’t this just the same as before? I don’t know what I’m trying to prove or who I am trying to prove it to, y’know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie isn’t entirely sure he does. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno, man,” he says. “Aren’t all choices influenced by expectations? Not to get all philosophical on you but I don’t think anyone makes choices based purely on free will, it doesn’t work like that. You choose to do things people expect of you so you don’t upset the status quo, or you choose to do the opposite to be a contrary bitch. Your choices don’t exist in a vacuum.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie hums. He holds the packet of mango out to him and Richie takes a handful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a thoughtful pause, Eddie says, “For a while after Derry I, uh— I guess I felt like I survived for a reason. Nothing to do with God or whatever, obviously, but I thought maybe it was a second chance at life. Thought I had to change everything, become a new man. It was all very Hollywood, in my head.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And didn’t you? Not sure if old Eddie would be hungover in a car in Poland right now,” Richie says. “You divorced your mom and everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie says but there’s no heat behind it. “It just wasn’t how I thought it would go. When I came back to New York everything was exactly the same: Myra, our house, my job, the neighbours, even my car was fixed and good as new. And for a few weeks I got sucked back into it, doing exactly the same shit as before except I had a hole in my chest and Myra was even more overbearing than normal.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking agitated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, man,” Richie says and it takes everything he has in him not to stop the car at the side of the road and escape out the door at the sincerity. As much as he knows he’s a fuck up, he hates apologising for it in any tangible way. It feels weak, vulnerable, like he is exposing more than he should, like some fucked up survival instinct that only serves to make it hard for him to form meaningful relationships. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t— dude, this isn’t about you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie turns his head sharply to look at Eddie, baffled by the aggressive tone. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Richie, can I talk about my life for a fucking second without it being about you somehow?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, what the fuck! I didn’t say it was about me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you apologising?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you— I just wanted to! I was a shit friend after Derry and I should’ve called you more, I should apologise!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is exactly what I mean!” Eddie looks furious, his eyebrows drawn together and his cheeks flushed red. “I’m trying to tell you something here but you’re just— it doesn’t matter you didn’t call. It sucked, but it doesn’t matter now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie, I—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know why you didn’t want to talk to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s stomach drops and he reflexively clutches the steering wheel tighter. He stares at the back of the car in front of them, a red Volvo with a polish license plate. WU 718PH, black on white. His palms are sweaty against the faux leather of the wheel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, survivor’s guilt is generally reserved for when someone actually dies,” Eddie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have survivor’s guilt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie, you can’t even hear about my injury without looking like a kicked puppy. But that’s not the point! Just let me say this!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sucks in a deep breath. He tucks the bag of dried mango into the side of the door with angry finality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The point is, I keep doing these things because I think this is the opposite of what I would have done before Derry. Like drinking tequila until I can’t think straight, or doing psychedelics in a foreign country, and shit — it’s not a choice then, is it? If I’m only doing it to prove something to myself?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause, a moment of stillness that Richie desperately wants to fill with something, anything, but he bites his tongue because Eddie said to let him speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you can’t just ditch everything that makes up your life because a clown nearly kills you. You think it would be so easy, you have a near death experience and suddenly you’re a completely different person, kinder and braver and stronger.” As he speaks, the words tumbling out of him like an avalanche, Eddie gesticulates wildly like he’s trying to encompass all that he means with his hands. He says, “But ultimately the truth is that I’m a neurotic hypochondriac control-freak, I hate most people I meet, I don’t like casual sex or sleeping in past 9am, I don’t enjoy eating at places that have a less than perfect food hygiene rating because it makes me anxious, I don’t like karaoke or fun fairs, I don’t want to climb Mount Everest and I don’t want to open an orphanage or a shelter for mistreated animals.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie nods and wonders if he can speak without being an asshole about it yet. Eddie continues before he gets the chance to say anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not like Mike who wants to make the world a better place. I like that my job is boring and that I am good at it, and I buy gluten free cookies even though I don’t have an intolerance because it makes me feel better about eating cookies in the first place, and I bring the same shitty salad to work every day because one time I tried to have noodles instead and got acid reflux so bad I had to leave work to get Nexium from the pharmacy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he isn’t sure he’s allowed Richie can’t help the laugh spilling out of him at that, loud and obnoxious as always. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he chokes out in between honking like a goose with an overbite. “That’s</span>
  <span>— dude, that’s so fucking funny, what—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up, Richie, I swear to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be so fucking ridiculous if you don’t want me to laugh!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie reaches over the arm rest between them to smack his shoulder forcefully but when Richie looks over at him he is biting down on a thin-lipped grin.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, I really don’t know where you’re going with this,” Richie admits. “None of these are bad things. You don’t have to become some kind of rockstar daredevil philanthropist just because your life kinda sucked and then you got impaled. Like I said, you already divorced Myra! You moved out of the scary suburbs! You do yoga!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been doing yoga for like five years, dude,” Eddie says. And then, “Point is, I’m not gonna change the fucking world. And maybe I thought I would? But I just want my friends to be safe and I want— fuck, I want to drink good coffee and have a nice car and go to therapy and sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets and I want to run a marathon. Fuck, man, I want to run so fucking badly but I can’t because the clown took that! Fuck that fucking clown.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie thinks that maybe he knows what Eddie is trying to say now, and he also thinks that maybe he had a point about the survivor’s guilt. Because, god damn it all to hell, Eddie can’t run. And if there’s anything in the world that he’s certain of then it’s that Eddie Kaspbrak is a runner. Not in the way that he runs from things, like Pennywise or his marriage or unhygienic bathrooms, but in the way he runs towards things, like danger and his friends and the finish line at the school’s track competition in their freshman year, his legs splattered with mud, his cheeks bright red, looking like the strongest motherfucker in Richie’s tiny, small-town world. So maybe the heavy feeling deep in his guts at the sight of the gnarled scar tissue down his chest and back is just that </span>
  
  <span>— survivor’s guilt. Like it should have been him impaled, not Eddie. </span>
</p><p><span>But if it had been him he knows he wouldn’t have survived it. Eddie has always been stronger, more resilient than him, and that is a fact written into the blood pact they all made</span> <span>— a promise, a rebellion against Sonia Kaspbrak sown into the fabric of the universe that day. And maybe Eddie survived because of it, that same magic that let them bully Pennywise to death carried Eddie through an injury that should have killed him</span><span>. </span></p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to change, Eds,” Richie says and he watches him out of the corner of his eye, agitated and winded in the passenger seat like a tightly strung bow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is staring through the windshield ahead and Richie wonders </span>
  <span>— what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, what he needs him to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you don’t have to get wasted to prove that you’re young, wild and free.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, but what if I want to! How do I know what I want if I’ve never tried it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, did you like it? Did it fulfill you? Did you enjoy nearly blacking out in a club bathroom and throwing your guts up in the morning?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, of course I fucking didn’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shrugs. “Cool. Now you know! Egyptian cotton sheets and gluten free snickerdoodles are a yes, getting wasted on Tequila is a no.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause. Richie drums his fingers on the steering wheel in a janky rhythm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But maybe I need that to be reckless,” Eddie says. “Maybe I want to be reckless.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds, you nearly died last year. Do you really need ‘reckless’?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sucks in a deep breath. “There are things I want to do. That I— um, that I can’t do. If I’m not reckless.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie blinks and looks over at him, trying to decipher that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eyes on the road,” Eddie snaps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you wanted to be reckless?” Richie grins at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, not you, though!” Eddie says, aggrieved. “You’re reckless enough, you motherfucker.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Literally! Glad you finally accepted our—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you make one more your mom joke I will break your skull on the steering wheel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie clutches his chest in feigned outrage. “Why, I never— Mr. Kaspbrak! Such violent language around a good, Christian lady?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eyes on the fucking road, Tozier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie snorts but does as he’s told. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So anyways. You want to be reckless, but maybe not alcohol poisoning levels of recklessness?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighs. “I don’t know. I should probably just call my therapist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, you people and your healthy, responsible ways of dealing with repressed childhood trauma,” Richie says, disgusted. “Why don’t you just drink too much and cry into Bill’s shoulder twice a week like the rest of us?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um,” Eddie says. “You okay, dude?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, yeah! Great!” And then, “I think I’m an alcoholic, though. There’s maybe also a bit of a coke problem there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, what the fuck? We need to stop drinking! We’ve been drinking way too much these past few weeks, it’s not healthy— you have a coke problem? What the fuck, Rich, really?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie just grins and turns the music back up, louder and louder until Eddie smacks his hand away from the stereo. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Late that night in Warsaw, Richie lies awake in the quiet dark of his bedroom and stares at the ceiling, blurry as it is without his glasses. The drive exhausted him but he can’t catch his breath long enough to drift off because Eddie is on his mind and in the room next door. Like most nights, he can hear the pained whimpers and strangled groans of nightmares through the thin walls, and like most nights he feels completely useless. He feels like a shit friend for never having asked him about this in the daytime, for not knowing what to do. They should talk about it. It’s not like they haven’t already lived through it together, whatever it is Eddie is dreaming about. They defeated it, in fact, the fucker is shrivelled up and buried in the collapsed caves underneath Neibolt Street. Surely they can deal with this one too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a self-inflicted fear that keeps him trapped in his bed, that much he knows. He has never been good at comforting people, or really any kind of situation that required emotional intelligence but up until a year ago he also believed that he had never once been brave, or loved, or selfless. So couldn’t he change? He wants to be there for Eddie, to be someone he trusts in the dead of night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the blinds the streetlight outside his window casts stark shadows on the carpeted floor and across the foot of his bed. He moves the duvet with his foot and watches as the blurry bars of orange light shift with the movement. Next door, Eddie makes a muffled sound, like a shout — an unintelligible word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie throws the covers back and gets out of bed. He puts on the t-shirt he had unceremoniously discarded on the floor earlier that night and feels for his glasses on the nightstand. Once they’re on and he can see again he leaves the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside the door of Eddie’s bedroom he pauses, hesitant. What’s the etiquette for waking someone up from a nightmare? Should he knock? What if he makes it worse? What if Eddie thinks he’s attacking him and stabs Richie in the neck with the nearest sharp object he can find? What if Eddie sleeps naked? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes a deep, ragged breath and scrubs a hand over his face. He reminds himself of Eddie’s stupid silk pyjamas and prays to the gods he doesn’t believe in that tonight is not the night Eddie has decided to change up his choice of sleep attire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knocks once, twice. There’s no answer. Of course there fucking isn’t, Eddie’s asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He contemplates his next move for all of two and a half seconds and then he simply opens the door and pokes his head in. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is curled up on his side, facing away from him. Even in the low light Richie can make out the trembling shape of his shoulder where he lies. There’s a soft whine coming from somewhere inside his chest, like an injured dog. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps into the room and approaches the bed, all of a sudden feeling like a creepy, Edward Cullen ass bitch. Like a freak, he stands a few feet away and stares at Eddie’s back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not the— You— Stan,” Eddie groans nonsensically and he turns over in one swift motion, throwing his head onto the side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie is frozen on the spot. Deep, dark shadows roll across Eddie’s face, his face full of worried lines, and his cheeks are glistening with tears — or sweat, but Richie doesn’t want to take any chances. This won’t do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down on the edge of the bed and the mattress dips beneath him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Eddie, wake up,” he says, soft but insistent, and he reaches out to touch his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie buries his face in the pillow and huffs out a breath. “Richie,” he says, his voice muffled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s me, sorry to wake you up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie makes a guttural sound at the back of his throat, something between a groan and a sob. “Don’t— not him, stop— The bike!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still asleep. How the fuck? Richie is moments away from just shaking him awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie,” he says, louder this time. He nudges his shoulder. “Eddie, man, come on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie jerks underneath his touch and recoils to the other edge of the bed, scrambling into something vaguely resembling an upright position. His eyes are wide and startled, still wet with tears, and he is breathing so hard it has to hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just me,” Richie says. “You were having a nightmare.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie says and doesn’t relax one bit. Richie swears he can hear his rabbit-quick heart beat even over the sound of his wheezing breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, sorry. I just thought it might be a good idea to wake you up? Sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was fucking stupid. He has no clue what to say or do, and he just wants to wrap Eddie up in a blanket and stay with him, maybe stroke his hair and talk to him about nothing at all until he falls asleep again. But all he really achieved was scaring the life out of him, the opposite of what he was going for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie wipes furiously at his face with the sleeve of his silk pyjamas — at least he’s not sleeping naked — and pulls his knees up to his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna, uh, I’ll just go,” Richie says and gets up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is halfway to the door when Eddie says, “Rich.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. Turns on his heel. Hovers awkwardly in the middle of the room.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is still sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest but the panicked lines on his face have smoothed out into a small, tired frown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t go,” he says then, voice hoarse.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s hands flex uselessly at his side. “Oh, um,” he says and takes a hesitant step towards the bed. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just—” Eddie untangles himself and slides back down underneath the covers, shuffling over so he is lying down on the far side of the queen sized bed. “Hang out for a bit?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stumbles over to him and sits down on the bed again. Slowly, giving Eddie plenty of time to change his mind, he lies down next to him on his side. He feels awkward and too big for his skin, for this room. His glasses sit askew on the bridge of his nose, pushed to one side by the pillow beneath his head and he looks at Eddie intently, trying to make out everything hidden within the stark shadows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you dream about?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Different things. Dying, my mom, the clown, you, the others.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, dying. Sometimes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop. Whatever it is, don’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shuts up. They stare at each other in the dark and the only sound is their joint breathing, the faint wheeze in Eddie’s chest. Every cell in his body is straining to say something, to fill the silence with nonsensical rambling and shitty jokes, to roll around on the bed and saying ‘Love me, love me, please, Eddie, love me’ like a court jester prostrating himself pathetically in front of the king, desperate to not be hanged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he stays still. Eventually Eddie’s soft breathing lulls him into unconsciousness as the day finally catches up with him. The last thing he is aware of before drifting off is the feeling of Eddie gently taking off his glasses, and the faint click as he sets them down on the bedside table.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Richie has to take several cold showers. Eddie gets locked out of his Instagram account. Richie and Eddie hang out in their underwear and it's not even a little bit weird. The author has never been to Poland.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter specific content warnings: </p><p>Mentions of substance abuse issues (alcoholism mainly, and mentions of cocaine, opioids and MDMA). Emetophobia. Casual drinking. Mentions of internalised homophobia.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie comes to it slowly, only vaguely aware of something hot and heavy around his torso and along his back that he can't quite place. His dreams, like the one he struggles against now, rarely make sense. There are no metaphors, no fascinating insights into his psyche, just random things happening to him, flashes of memories and entirely unfounded scenarios. Sometimes they are so mundane and stupid he wakes up thinking he must be the most unimaginative person on earth — just last week he dreamed that his WiFi stopped working and he restarted the router, and that was the only thing that happened the entire night. </p><p>His eyes flutter and he takes in a quick flash of the room, blurry as it is around him, lines of light cast along the wall. In the dream that he hasn't fully shaken yet Bill is wearing a blonde wig and saying something he can’t quite decipher, but he is ripped from it when he realises with a startled inhale that the warm something around his waist and along his back is an arm and attached to it a human person. Fully awake now he feels the hot breath on the back of his neck, the hand curled limply around the soft shape of his right pectoral muscle.  </p><p>He takes quick, shallow breaths as he adjusts to the reality of being spooned, and not just that but being spooned by Eddie who he fell asleep with last night, and the fact that he was somehow the first to wake up so he gets to witness this moment. He can feel Eddie’s chest expand and contract slowly, evenly, where it’s pressed against his shoulder blades, can hear the faint wheeze characteristic of his breathing. </p><p>Richie wants so badly to take Eddie’s hand where it’s resting against his chest, interlace their fingers and go back to sleep, to live in this early morning world a little longer, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before Eddie inevitably wakes up and gets weird about it and Richie thinks that maybe he should just not be around for that part. </p><p>Behind him Eddie shifts and Richie stays very, very still. With the subtle movement comes the absolutely incomprehensible realisation that Eddie’s dick is pressed against his ass, and it’s not entirely innocent. As in, he’s hard. As in, Eddie Kaspbrak’s erection is flush against him, only two layers of thin fabric separating bare flesh. </p><p>Richie is suddenly very aware of the fact that he sleeps in just a t-shirt and underwear, and he wishes he had some kind of stupid three-layered pyjama set-up instead. To protect him from himself, mostly, and from the white-hot temptation of it. </p><p>He stares, unblinking, at the wall across the room. His glasses are still on the bedside table so he can’t make out anything but the vague outline of the door and the blur of sunlight on white wallpaper. </p><p>Eddie shifts and pushes into him a little. Then again, his fingers flexing against Richie’s chest and  — alright, fuck, he’s grinding against him and Richie is going to lose his mind. It’s mortifying, and it’s also, embarrassingly, the most action he has gotten in months and if he wasn’t so freaked out, if it was anyone but Eddie, he would rock his hips to grind right back into him. As it stands, however, he just lays there and tries to breathe evenly to feign being asleep — plausible deniability if Eddie wakes up.</p><p>Eddie makes a quiet noise against the back of Richie’s neck and the ghost of his lips on his skin sends shivers down his spine. There’s a brief moment of stillness and Richie thinks maybe that’s it, he can survive this, but then Eddie nuzzles into him and rubs his dick against his ass and Richie’s brain short-circuits. </p><p>He’s asleep, he reminds himself and tries desperately to hold onto a shred of sanity, tries to will away the tight, hot feeling low in his belly. Despite the fact that it’s Eddie who is essentially dry-humping him and not the other way around, Richie feels like a pervert for letting it happen instead of untangling himself and getting the hell outta dodge. Eddie’s hand ghosts along his chest clumsily and as he grinds his hips, harder this time, he moans softly into Richie’s shoulder. </p><p>He keeps going, rubbing against him once, twice, three times and then he abruptly stills and sucks in a startled breath. Richie squeezes his eyes shut tightly and puts everything he learned in college improv classes into being as convincingly asleep as physically possible. </p><p>“Fuck,” Eddie whispers behind him, the world’s quietest swear word. Everything stands still and for a moment Richie, bewildered, thinks that he’s going to stay and spoon him. </p><p>Then Eddie peels himself off his back and after some rustling of the sheets he hears the bed frame creak as Eddie gets up. Richie keeps his eyes firmly closed and is grateful for the way that the duvet is draped over him from the navel down, unable to think of a worse development to this situation than Eddie looking at him right now and seeing the clear bulge in his underwear. </p><p>He listens to the faint sounds of footsteps on the coarse carpeted floor, the zip of a suitcase opening, soft rustling and then the squeak of the door hinges as Eddie leaves the room. </p><p>Richie stays still until he can hear the groan of ancient pipes and the distant sound of running water. Only then does he allow himself to roll onto his back and press the heel of his hand against his crotch with a frustrated groan. He lifts his other hand to rub his face furiously and grinds into his palm a few, desperate times. </p><p>But he can’t. Whatever the fuck just happened there, he knows that at the very least he owes it to Eddie not to jack off in his bed while he’s in the shower. He helplessly bucks his hips once more and then he turns over onto Eddie’s side of the bed (both side’s are Eddie’s, he tells himself, this is Eddie’s bed). He feels for his glasses on the bedside table, fumbles a little as he puts them on and then sits up groggily. He’s flustered and unsure, trying to come to terms with the — well, the everything of the situation, as he sits on the edge of the bed and stares out at the blue sky through the gaps in the blinds. </p><p>Right, he thinks. They’re in Warsaw. Another city, another day spent sightseeing and goofing around and getting to hang out with his best friend. That’s great. His best friend who fell asleep next to him last night and dry-humped him this morning, probably thinking Richie was his ex-wife, or his one-night stand (<em> Eddie doesn’t do those, actually, </em>his brain supplies helpfully). His best friend who is showering in the bathroom across the hall, and who might be jerking off in there right now. Okay. Cool! Worse things have happened to him. This is fine. </p><p>He gets up and makes the bed in a fit of housewifely obligation to Eddie, then goes back to his own room, legs shaking. He opens the blinds and lets the sunlight blind him for a blissful moment, the tingling ghost of Eddie’s fingers on his chest. </p><p>Then he turns on his heels, lies face down on the bed and screams into his pillow. </p><p> </p><p>When Richie finally gets dressed and  emerges from his bedroom Eddie is sitting in the small kitchenette with a cup of coffee, scrolling through the news on his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and not yet slicked back with product so a few strands hang loosely down his forehead, curling at the edges. Richie stands in the doorway and stares, and he loves him so much he feels stupid with it. </p><p>Eddie looks up from his phone, gives him a stilted smile and says, “Morning.” His voice is hoarse. </p><p>“Wassup?” Richie scratches his belly below his t-shirt and smiles back, feeling as tense as Eddie looks. </p><p>After a quiet breakfast of toast and eggs they brush their teeth together and then Richie leaves him to do his 10-step skincare routine and eyebrow plucking or whatever it is he does for twenty minutes every morning. He packs water, snacks and a local travel guide he finds in the living room into Eddie’s stupid Sandqvist designer backpack and then lounges on the sofa until Eddie is finally done. They head out with a vague plan and a strange  awkwardness settling between them that Eddie is clearly trying very hard to smooth over. </p><p>Sometime around noon their jokes become a little less tetchy, and they bicker like normal over coffee on the bustling Old Town market square. Eddie drags him to some castle where they ooh and aah at old bricks, and Richie is happy to be shepherded around by him for most of the day. They tick off two museums, five highly rated (on TripAdviser) landmarks, one ice cream parlour and one city tour by electric scooter which Richie insists they have to do — and he’s right, it’s hysterical. At one point the exasperated guide takes them aside and threatens to kick them out of the tour because they’re causing too much chaos on their scooters which makes Richie feel like he’s eight years old and Rabbi Uris is scolding them for attempting to do tricks on their bikes in the residential streets. </p><p>The city is busy and the air is warm, cooking underneath a blanket of clouds that only lets glimpses of the sun break through all day until it abruptly clears in the late afternoon, making space for a glowing blue sky.</p><p> </p><p>That evening, after dinner at a gourmet restaurant with some absolutely baffling interior design choices, the oppressive dark brick walls intercut with bright orange accents and neon lighting on the walls, Richie goes for a walk. He leaves Eddie curled up on the sofa around his Kindle, sipping wine and listening to Bruce Springsteen like the middle aged man that he is. </p><p>It’s only just gone 9pm so it’s still daylight outside, albeit waning, and the streets are alive with people. A group of kids are running around someone’s driveway and shooting each other with water pistols, screaming bloody murder, and as he walks by the small park nearby the sound of chatter and people embraces him. He walks a few blocks, nervous energy jittering through him like bugs, but eventually he decides to just bite the bullet and gets his phone out to call Bev, something that he can only do because Eddie insisted he should get an international cell phone plan, <em> dude, we’re travelling for three fucking months, are you going to send smoke signals and carrier pigeons?, </em>and the little bitch was right.  </p><p>Bev picks up after the second ring. </p><p>“Richie, hey,” she says, quick and bright. </p><p>“Hey, Ms. Marsh,” Richie says and plonks himself down on a bench overlooking the residential street. “How’s it hangin’?” </p><p>“Took a bubble bath in your honour this morning so I’m like a Buddhist monk right now. When I tell you I’m zen as hell...” </p><p>He laughs. “Aw, Bevs, good to know you’re carrying on the good work in my absence.” </p><p>“Always, baby. Everything okay with you and Eddie?” </p><p>“Huh?” Richie wonders what crazed vibe he’s giving off over the phone right now. “Maybe I just wanted to hear your beautiful, soprano voice!” </p><p>“Are you saying my voice is shrill?” </p><p>“No, I said it’s beautiful!” </p><p>“Alright, Tozier. I see your backhanded compliments,” she says. He can practically hear her eyes narrowing.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. And Bill calls me a drama queen. Anyways, everything is fine with me and Eddie. Peachy.” Super peachy, like peaches and cream, like peach cobbler and the wallpaper at Mama Bee’s. “How’s your hunk of a boyfriend?” </p><p>“He’s fine, I think. He’s at the office so I can't guarantee he hasn’t choked on a peanut since I last spoke to him, though.” </p><p>Richie absently picks at a piece of wood that has partially splintered off the bench. </p><p>“Listen, I—” he starts just as Bev says, “Richie, are you—” </p><p>They both giggle. </p><p>“You go first,” he says. “Age before beauty, you know how it goes.” </p><p>“I’m one month older than you, Richard. Don’t make me come to Europe to kick your ass.” She clears her throat. “I just wanted to ask if you’re doing alright. I haven’t heard from you much and I know you’re travelling so it makes sense but I wanted to check. You know, to see if it’s just that.” </p><p>Richie lets his head fall back and stares up at the sky, at the waning evening light stretching above him. </p><p>“Of course, dude. I’m fine! Just busy. We’re, uh, we’re out most of the day, you know? And time zones are a bitch.” </p><p>Truth is, he has been so caught up in Eddie’s company that it hasn’t occurred to him to call the others. Aside from their phone call with Bill and Mike in Amsterdam, the occasional text conversation, and their fairly active group chat he hasn’t really made the time for anyone. </p><p>He feels, abruptly, like a shitty friend for only calling her now to get something off his chest and not to check in with her. </p><p>“Okay,” Bev says on the other line. “Don’t worry about it then, Richie. I’m glad you guys are having fun.” Her voice is gentle. She is always like that, jumping back and forth between taking the piss and being supportive and kind like it was no effort at all. Richie, meanwhile, needs a 24-hour notice period before you can reasonably expect him to be sincere about anything. </p><p>There’s a long moment of quiet. He can hear rustling on the other end of the line, then a faint clatter, a whispered ‘shit!’. </p><p>“What are you doing?” </p><p>Bev laughs. “Attempting to cook for myself. Ben usually— ah, fuck! Cut myself. Ben usually does all the cooking and meal prep but he’s got this big project coming up, designing a library for some university in Washington state, and he’s neck-deep in sketches and paperwork. So I thought I’d be a good partner and take over this week.” </p><p>In the background, a splashing sound as she turns the tap on. “I should've just paid for someone to come cook for us, honestly. There’s meal prep services for rich people, y'know? But I just didn’t want to be that kind of bourgeois asshole. It would feel like a betrayal of my roots.” </p><p>Richie snorts. “When the revolution comes they aren't going to spare your life because you cook for yourself, Marshie.” </p><p>“Well, I can at least try, right?” The sound of running water stops abruptly. “And besides, I don’t think you’ll be spared either. We all somehow ended up rich as fuck.” </p><p>“Clown magic,” Richie says with a shrug. “Did you know that Eddie can't cook for shit? He made eggs like two weeks ago and they still haunt me. There isn’t enough mouthwash in the world to get rid of the taste.” </p><p>“Oh, I know! He tried cooking for me and Ben last time we were in New York and we had to just order takeaway in the end. He was furious! I thought he was going to strain a muscle from how mad he was about it.” Bev laughs again, a bright and unrestrained sound, like she just can’t help it. “Bless him for trying. Not sure how he made it this far in life with all his allergies and not being able to cook a decent meal for himself.” </p><p>Richie stretches his legs out in front of himself and crosses his ankles. “He told me he has salad for lunch every day. The exact same salad! That sucks so bad, dude,” he says, grinning to himself fondly. “Most of his allergies are bullshit anyways. Gazebos.” </p><p>“Yeah, I know that, but he still lives his life like they’re real.” </p><p>“It’s just what he’s used to,” Richie says, suddenly defensive of him. “It’s not his fault.” </p><p>There’s a brief pause. Then Bev says, “Of course, Rich. I wasn’t trying to be a dick about it.” </p><p>He swallows dryly, his throat working around nothing. He knows that, obviously. He also knows that Eddie doesn’t need him to defend his honour. Bev probably understands him more than Richie does, given the fact that she actually talked to him and visited him over the past year while Richie was busy wallowing in self-pity on the west coast. </p><p>“Yeah, sorry. I know,” he says slowly. </p><p>On the other end of the line he can hear the sound of rapid chopping. </p><p>“So, how’s Europe? Are you still in Berlin?” </p><p>“Poland now, actually,” he says. </p><p>“Oh, drinking plenty of Vodka?” </p><p>“I’m pretty sure that’s Russia.” </p><p>“Isn’t it both?” </p><p>“It’s probably both,” Richie agrees with a small nod. “Fuck if I know. We haven’t been drinking all that much since Eddie nearly had to get his stomach pumped two nights ago.” </p><p>“<em> Eddie </em> did? Not you? I can’t imagine him that drunk.” </p><p>“I hope you never have to see that, it was carnage. I had to carry him home because he couldn’t walk.” </p><p>“That’s very college-student of him,” she laughs and he hears the faint scraping sound of knife edge along cutting board. “Hey, did you know Ben and I are vegetarian now? It’s actually a lot easier than I thought, and I’m really—” </p><p>“I’m gay,” Richie says suddenly, the words tumbling out of him before he has time to think about it. </p><p>A beat. Then, “Is this because I just came out to you as a vegetarian?” Despite the joke, her voice is kind. </p><p>Before he can tear himself apart to come up with some joke in response she says, “Thank you for trusting me with that, Richie.” </p><p><em> Thank you for telling me, </em>that’s what Bill said at their small table at Mama Bee’s. Like he is doing them a favour by opening up his chest to reveal the ugly truths inside. </p><p>“Uh, yeah,” he says lamely. “Sorry to interrupt your vegetarian thing.” </p><p>Bev laughs and he aches for her, as he always does. He really wasn’t lying when he said he would choose her if he could have dinner with anyone in the world. If he was straight, there’s no question about who would have been his hopeless teenage crush. But instead she is the one he facetimes and gets stoned with across thousands of miles when he can’t deal with everything else in his life, and she is the one he texts when he’s drunk at 3am and he knows texting Eddie would be worse. </p><p>She clears her throat. “So, are you and Eddie…?” </p><p>Richie feels that like a slap to the face. “What? No! Eddie?” He laughs nervously, high-pitched. “Of course not.” </p><p>“Richie,” she says and her tone is unplaceable. “There’s clearly something there.” </p><p>He opens and closes his mouth a few times as a whole graveyard's worth of words die in his throat. “There’s— Bev, what? There’s nothing there! Eddie is straight!” </p><p>“Right,” she says over the sound of clinking dishes. “Okay, honey.” </p><p>“What does that even mean?” Richie runs one hand across his face and huffs out a little laugh. </p><p>“I just think that you two have always been kind of obsessed with each other,” Bev says and holy shit, she is apparently going in for the kill. </p><p>“Eddie was obsessed with Bill, not me.” </p><p>“No, Eddie hero-worshipped Bill, we all did. But you were definitely the one he was obsessed with.” </p><p>He drops his head back again and stares up at the dusk blue sky. “I’m not having this conversation.” </p><p>Bev snorts. “Who’s making you?” </p><p>“Fine! Yes, Eddie is the love of my life and I’m slowly going insane. You happy?” </p><p>“Oh, baby.” She sighs. “I’m only happy if you’re happy.” </p><p>Richie buries his face in his free hand, elbow propped up on his knee. </p><p>“Are you?” she asks, gentle once more like she wasn’t just pulling out his teeth with pliers a moment ago. </p><p>“Yeah, I’m fine.” </p><p>“That’s not the same as being happy,” she says. </p><p>“Fucking hell, Marsh, are you trying to make me cry?” </p><p>“No!” The clink of ceramic on marble countertops. “Maybe I’m just trying to get you to consider therapy.” </p><p>“What, by giving me an existential crisis?” He sniffles wetly for dramatic effect but he’s not far enough from tears for it to be funny. “Listen, Lisa, I gotta get back to the apartment. Eddie wants to watch a movie and it’s already half past nine over here.” </p><p>“Lisa?” </p><p>“That’s my imaginary therapist.” </p><p>She laughs openly. “Alright, Rich. Thanks for calling and sorry about the existential crisis.” </p><p>“I forgive you. Enjoy your shitty meal and tell Ben I said hi.” </p><p>“I will! We love you!” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah. I love you too.” </p><p> </p><p>On the walk back he finds himself constantly circling back to what Bev said. Are you happy, Richie? Why not? Why can’t you be that?<em> I’m fine, </em> he thinks defiantly. He’s content. He has friends, and a career, and he likes LA enough to want to live there for the foreseeable future. Last year he helped save the world (or at least the population of Derry) from being terrorized by a shape-shifting alien clown every twenty-seven years. So he’s doing better than most people, probably. </p><p>He’s not unhappy, not really. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with his life, nothing he lacks that can’t be filled with booze, good food and bad movies but maybe he understands Eddie’s weird complex about post-clown life more than he is ready to admit to himself, the key difference being that Eddie is actually trying to change. And yes, he’s being a little stupid about it but at least he is learning new things about himself while all that has changed for Richie is he now takes bubble baths once a week and watches an irresponsible amount of reality TV.</p><p>He has always lived his life believing that he is a fairly adventurous guy, constantly doing reckless shit and chasing some kind of high, whether it’s an amphetamine high or the validation of a buzzing crowd. But if taking random pills just because a hot guy is offering them and sleeping with strangers is his baseline then maybe being adventurous for him would mean taking a look at the long list of celebrity-vetted therapists that Bill has compiled for him, or picking up the phone to call his sister and ask her how she’s doing instead of starting a fight. Maybe while for Eddie stepping out of his comfort zone means taking psychedelics and getting a divorce, for Richie it would mean putting a ban on day-drinking and on doing coke alone in his apartment. Maybe it would mean telling Eddie how he feels and finally moving the fuck on from his childhood crush, which sounds a lot easier than it actually is. </p><p>Actually, it doesn’t even fucking sound easy. </p><p>Outside their apartment block he stops and takes deep, meditative breaths. Perhaps he needs to consider taking up yoga. He thinks that Eddie would probably let him borrow his mat as long as he disinfected it thoroughly afterwards. </p><p>He unlocks the main door and trudges up the stairs. Halfway there he stops abruptly, struck by a thought, and takes his phone out to text Ben. He makes several attempts at writing a heartfelt message, deletes each and every one of them and then simply sends: </p><p> </p><p>[To: Ben 9:37pm] </p><p>
  <em>hey big ben! I’m gay!! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[To: Ben 9:38pm]</p><p><em>bev will probs tell you anyway but i wanted to get there first. i would call but i hear you’re working hard at the office [Eggplant emoji] [Finger guns emoji]</em> </p><p> </p><p>He stuffs his phone into his pocket with a panicked look over his shoulder, gripped by the irrational fear that Eddie is standing behind him like a freak. </p><p>He’s alone in the neon-lit stairwell. Laughing at himself, he climbs the final set of stairs.</p><p> </p><p>Even though Eddie is bleary-eyed and yawning by 10pm they stay up past midnight to watch <em> Transformers: Age of Extinction </em> and together they finish Eddie's bottle of red wine. Richie spends the entire 165-minute runtime of the movie thinking about coming out to Eddie and sweating through his shirt. In the end he goes to bed without saying anything at all.</p><p>It's no biggie, really. He has another two months to figure out how to tell Eddie without simultaneously revealing his undying love for him.</p><p>Ben texts him back just as he's settling into bed, hitting him with the sweetest, most typical Ben reply he possibly could have come up with.</p><p> </p><p>[From: Ben 12:48pm]</p><p>
  <em>I'm so proud of you, man! Thanks for telling me. I'm always here for you if you need me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>And then, not a minute later:</p><p>[From: Ben 12:48pm]</p><p>
  <em>I actually dated a man a few years ago! But I think that was a one-off, Bev is kind of it for me now. Anyway, I'm here for you if you want to talk about it.</em>
</p><p>Richie lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling. What the fuck? Are all of his friends secretly bisexual and somehow fine with it, even Ben? Out of all the Losers, Ben is definitely the most heterosexual and yet Straight Ben dated a guy and can just casually drop that into conversation? It seems to him like a cruel joke, as if someone just wants to rub in all that Richie could never have. </p><p><em> You can have this, motherfucker, </em> he thinks to himself. He can have this. He will have this. Manifestation is a thing, right? </p><p>Eyes squeezed shut, he holds his phone to his chest. He thinks of Eddie’s sweaty palm against his by the Amstel, Eddie’s fingers curled around his chin in their Kreuzberg apartment, and hopes, for the first time in a long while, for something more. </p><p> </p><p>"I’m thinking of going vegetarian," Richie tells Eddie over a steaming pot of coffee between them. </p><p>They are sitting in a booth by the window of a small café not fifteen minutes from their apartment, on the morning of their last day in the city. Eddie is tired and a little cranky and he blames Richie for picking the longest movie ever made, and Richie thinks that Eddie’s body clock just needs adjusting, and that it’s really not his fault. </p><p>Eddie raises one eyebrow at him.</p><p>"Bev said her and Ben are vegetarians now! It seems like now's the time to do it,” he elaborates. </p><p>"This isn't middle school. You don't need to do what Bev does because you think she's cool,” Eddie tells him. </p><p>He clutches his chest with an offended gasp. "Excuse me! I'm doing this because I think<em> Ben </em> is cool."</p><p>"Ben is not cool. Ben kept Beverly's yearbook signature in his wallet for 27 years like a freak. He has a home gym and writes haikus. Ben is not cool."</p><p>Richie laughs through a bite of kielbasa and scrambled egg. "Who died and made you the coolness police? Ben is so fucking cool, dude. It’s 2017, being romantic and super nice and helping little grannies with their shopping is cool now.” He waves his fork in Eddie’s direction. “Broaden your horizons, my guy!” </p><p>"I'll broaden your horizons, asshole," Eddie snaps. </p><p>Richie waggles his eyebrows. "Oh, I bet you will."</p><p> </p><p>In pursuit of the title of the world's worst vegetarian, Richie has meat with every meal that day. After an exhausting day of being dragged across the city once again as Eddie tries to cram in as many of TripAdviser's hottest tips as possible they turn into a little hole in the wall milk bar and share a massive serving of beef-stuffed cabbage rolls and pierogi filled with sauerkraut and mushrooms. They get a little bit tipsy with dinner so Richie feels pleasantly warmed up from the inside and Eddie's cheeks are flushed red, and<em> it's called erythema and it's a natural reaction to drinking alcohol for some people </em>, Eddie tells him angrily when Richie makes fun of him for it, a repeat of a conversation they have had at least five times this past month.</p><p>Afterwards they sit on a bench on the bank of the Vistula and watch the sky turn peach pink and thistle as the sun sets on the city. They are in silent in a way they rarely ever are since they’re always yapping at each other and talking about nothing at all, skirting around personal truths and exchanging biting commentary on pretty much everything from each other's respective midlife crises to things they read on the internet that they absolutely have to argue about right then and there. Dinner was no different but now, in the pink glow of sunset, they seem to have fallen into an easy silence so unlike them that it makes Richie's palms itch. He wonders, then, how they haven't run out of conversation yet after three weeks of near constant chatter, only stopping when they go to sleep and picking up the next morning. Last night they argued about the Transformers movie while brushing their teeth because Eddie insisted that it was fucked up for Optimus Prime to kill Attinger and Richie thought it was fine because it made sense narratively and it was also sick as hell and they ended up in a heated debate in the hallway outside of Richie's bedroom for fifteen minutes until Eddie put his foot down and went the fuck to bed. </p><p>It’s pleasant to sit there, only a few inches between them so that when Richie shifts to adjust his posture his elbow knocks lightly against Eddie’s. If this were a movie, this would be the moment he tells Eddie. He would break this companionable quiet and Eddie would say something meaningful and give him a hug, they would smile at each other and Richie would tell him how good it feels to finally have it out in the open like that. If this were a movie, Eddie would love him back and their first kiss would be on the beach somewhere, under a clear and starlit sky. </p><p>But this is not a movie, and because this is not a movie Richie eventually breaks the silence to wonder aloud, “Do you think Bev pegs Ben?” and Eddie screams at him to shut the fuck up, jabbing his fingers in Richie’s side until he’s doubled over and shrieking with laughter. </p><p> </p><p>In Krakow, the travel weariness finally begins to set in. Richie has been wondering when it would, self-aware enough to know he will inevitably start craving days of lounging around in sweats and watching TV on the couch. The only way he gets through touring is by taking at least two days off a week to hole up in his hotel room and speak to no one but the receptionist when he orders room service and the person who brings him said room service, and although he will say that travelling with Eddie is much more fun than being on tour by himself, three months is still a long time and this was bound to happen. </p><p>Eddie is not on the same page. When Richie floats the idea of taking a day off from endless walking and tourist shit he just scoffs and takes a judgemental sip of coffee.</p><p>“You can stay home, if you want,” he says and Richie feels like a teenager being guilted into going to a family function by his mom. “You’re an adult, you can make your own decisions.”</p><p>Richie narrows his eyes. </p><p>“I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not gonna work,” he says firmly. </p><p>It works. Half an hour later he watches Eddie flit around the apartment and gather his things for the day. He has his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and is wearing a white linen shirt and denim shorts so short that his toned thighs are out for the world to see, and Richie suddenly thinks that he can’t just let Eddie leave by himself and miss out on staring at his legs all day when he thinks he isn’t looking.</p><p>“Fine,” he says out loud and Eddie looks up from where he’s packing his Hydro Flask into the bag on the kitchen table. “I’ll come with. But I want a day off soon.”</p><p>“You’re only allowed to come if you’re not going to bitch and moan about how much you’d rather be at home all day,” Eddie says.</p><p>"I'm not making any promises."</p><p>When he does have a good time in the end, it’s only partly because of Eddie’s thighs. They walk and walk and walk, the summer sun beating down on them relentlessly and Richie thinks if it weren't for the baseball caps Eddie insists on when it's particularly sunny he would be delirious with sunstroke by early afternoon. As they've found with most European cities so far, Krakow has an abundance of old buildings and imposing churches, the very soul of the city steeped in catholicism and Richie stops to take pictures until his camera roll is nothing but old walls and Eddie, bathed in sunlight. </p><p>In the afternoon they escape to Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter, and they dip in and out of small shops selling everything from refurbished antique furniture to kitschy souvenirs. He has to stop Eddie from buying a particularly nice armchair — and it really is beautiful, with ebony detailing and dark leather cushions — insisting again and again that Norwegian Airlines will absolutely not let them take it back to New York and they might not even be able to fit it in the rental car. Eddie turns into a petulant child about fancy things he wants to buy, Richie knows this by now, so he lets him throw a small, passive aggressive fit about it for half an hour before he tells him to get it together and buys him some wild berry ice cream. </p><p>He snaps a picture of Eddie mid-lick, raspberry-red ice cream melting down his chin, and posts it on Instagram, captions it ‘<em>it’s</em> <em>sprinkled with lithium, he thinks he’s Sylvia Miles’. </em>By now, e_kaspbrak has seven tagged photos, no posts and 1,582 followers. Eddie went to delete the account last night and got locked out for twenty-four hours for attempting the wrong password too many times. </p><p> </p><p>In the early evening they have dinner in the garden at a small, rustic restaurant and end up staying for a few rounds of beer. Their efforts to stop drinking have been pretty unenthusiastic despite the fact that Eddie keeps bringing it up and clearly feels guilty about it, what with Richie's slight alcohol issues. Over their fourth bottle of Lubelskie Pils, Eddie says as much, face in his hands.</p><p>"I need to stop enabling you like this," he groans.</p><p>Richie takes a sip of his beer, amused. "Dude, you're not my sponsor."</p><p>"You have a sponsor?!" Eddie's hands fall away and he looks at him with wide, startled eyes. A deer caught in the headlights. </p><p>Richie laughs loudly. "Do you think I would be drinking with you if I did?"</p><p>"I don't know! Do you go to AA meetings?" Eddie asks, his forehead crumpled into worried lines.</p><p>"Nah. I have been to a few in my life, but I haven't gone in a couple years." Richie shrugs. He swirls his beer around in the bottom of his bottle like fine whiskey, eyes fixed on the movement. "It's not nearly as bad as you're thinking. I'm not like, passed out drunk every night and I don't drink as soon as I wake up. It's— I mean, it's not great! Obviously. I should drink less! But I'm not gonna die of liver failure any time soon."</p><p>Somehow this doesn't do anything to smooth out Eddie's wrinkled forehead. "You don't have to be dying for me to be worried about you, what the fuck," he says and exhales sharply, an angry sound.</p><p>"It's cool, man," Richie says and raps his knuckles on the wood of the table. "I'm aware of it! And that's the first step, right? I've actually been aware of it for like fifteen years so I'm doing great on that front."</p><p>Eddie throws his hands up in despair. "That's worse! The fact that you've been aware of it for fifteen years but you haven't done anything to quit means you don't care about yourself enough to want to change. That fucking sucks!"</p><p>Richie retreats into his shell, going on the defence. He gets enough of this shit from Steve, from Bev, from Bill. Sometimes from Mike when they speak on the phone, although he forgives him for it more than the others. Ben does it the least but even he keeps sending him e-mails for self-care and detox retreats from his work account with the professional signature and his logo in the top left corner, which makes it funnier but no less annoying.</p><p>"Oh, come off it, Eds, I don't need you to psychoanalyse me. Can't you people just let me be a train wreck in peace?"</p><p>Eddie bristles, the lines of his shoulders tense and furious. Richie can read him now, the way he could when they were kids. He knows what it means when his fingers curl just so, when he purses his lips, can make out small shifts in his posture when his injury is bothering him. After three weeks spent together without so much as a day apart and given how much Richie looks at Eddie when he feels brave enough he thinks that if he wrote a bullet point list of his body language tells it would be four pages long and more detailed than most of his college essays. Knowing Eddie like this is familiar like an old toy.</p><p>"I really can't," Eddie snaps. "I want you to be happy!"</p><p>Richie stares at him. He licks his lips nervously and pushes his glasses up the sweaty bridge of his nose where they've slid down. "I am happy," he says, delayed.</p><p>Eddie shakes his head. "Are you?"</p><p>Like with Bev, he wants to be angry at him. He made it over two decades without them and he would have made it at least another two before drinking himself into an early grave, so he's actually fine. He's great. But no matter how much he wants to be pissed off, no matter how the animal inside of him bristles at being patronised, all he really wants is for the other Losers to be happy, too. It's just that they all seem to be so much better at it than Richie.</p><p>"No, but I could be,” he says. </p><p>Eddie reaches across the table to place a hand on top of his. They look at each other in the dim light of outdoor lanterns and candles, and Eddie's eyes are dark and intense as always, shadowed by his thick brows. Beads of sweat crawl down Richie's back underneath his shirt and he squirms. Nearby, an old woman is playing a jaunty folk tune on the accordion and he isn't sure if she's been paid to do so or if she simply woke up this morning and decided to add some atmosphere to Richie’s life today.</p><p>"We should stop drinking," Eddie says finally and squeezes his hand. He lingers for a long moment, like a fish caught on the hooks of him, but then he pulls away.</p><p> </p><p>Richie calls Mike at a highway rest stop near Banská Bystrica in Slovakia. They are on their way to Budapest, on their longest car journey yet at around six hours, which isn't much compared to some of the trips Richie has taken back home. Eddie is sitting on a bench at the other end of the parking lot, keeping an eye on their stupid SUV and drinking vending machine coffee that tastes like piss — his words, verbatim. </p><p>He can't explain exactly why it has to be then but as soon as he got out of the car and stretched his legs he wanted to call him and get it out of the way. Logically, Richie knows that he doesn't owe it to anyone to come out in person. He could have sent a message in the group chat, said it in a postcard from Warsaw, or simply told Bill to pass it on to everyone else so he wouldn't have to keep going through the motions. But he has built this up inside of himself all his life, has carried it through the years, and he wants to prove to the world that he can do it. Richie Tozier can be gay and loud about it. He can take up that space, can make his friends listen. Even Eddie. Especially Eddie, but that still lives on the horizon stretched ahead of him.</p><p>"M'hey," Mike grumbles when he picks up the phone after the fourth ring.</p><p>"Oh shit, hey! What time is it?" He forgot about time zones, impatient as he is to get this conversation over with. </p><p>Mike huffs into the receiver, something between a laugh and a sigh. "It's nearly 3am," he says.</p><p>Richie grimaces. "Sorry, dude. You were asleep.” </p><p>"Yeah.” There’s a faint rustling noise and the creaking of leather. A rough exhale. “What's up? Are you and Eddie considering MDMA this time?"</p><p>"Nah, just heroin," Richie says and he tries to imagine Eddie rolling on Molly. It would probably be the end of him — Richie, that is, not Eddie. "No drugs this time. I just wanted to tell you something."</p><p>"Mh, what's up?" Mike says, sounding a little more alert.</p><p>"I'm, uh." He doesn't know why he chokes on it this time, feels like he should be good at it by now. And it's Mike! The guy just did the biggest U-haul of their friend group since Benverly and cancelled a three month trip to move in with Bill before the divorce papers had even been served. </p><p>He takes a deep breath and says, "I'm gay."</p><p>There's a brief pause on the other end of the line. That seems to be the standard response. "Oh, right. I'm proud of you." </p><p>Richie laughs nervously, a high-pitched sound. “Yeah, sure. Only took me forty years.” </p><p>“I didn’t tell anyone until I left Derry. Nothing wrong with that, it's not a competition.”  </p><p>“Who did you tell? Because it sure wasn’t me! I’m hurt, Micycle,” he says good-naturedly. “You were fourth on my list, man. Fourth! Looks like I’m not even on yours.” </p><p>Mike chuckles, a deep and friendly sound. In another world, perhaps neighbouring the one where he is straight and in love with Bev, Richie probably loves Mike. Handsome, intelligent, loyal, and only a little bit crazy sometimes. Inexplicably romantically and sexually attracted to Bill Denbrough which is potentially his biggest flaw. </p><p>“There’s no list, Richie,” Mike says. “I didn’t really ‘come out’, I just talked to Eddie about it after he went back to New York, and eventually to Bill.” </p><p>Richie paces the length of the sidewalk, phone clutched in his white-knuckled right hand.</p><p>“Oh! You talked to Eddie about it,” he says, going for casual. He’s not sure where he lands, but it’s definitely not casual. “Alright! Cool! He probably had a lot of helpful stuff to say since his divorce gave him like 10 extra points in the emotional intelligence stats.” </p><p>“Yeah, he was a great help,” Mike says cryptically. “He really understood my situation.” </p><p>“Sure, yeah. For sure. Absolutely, uh— That makes sense,” Richie babbles. </p><p><em> The divorce, </em> he thinks. Eddie understands Mike’s situation because of the divorce. Coming out and leaving your wife are both major life changes — realising that you’re finally ready to take that step and forge a different, better path in life. It’s not because Eddie is also gay and interested in his childhood friend, like Mike is. It could be, of course, but it’s not! Eddie would have told him by now, he’s all about sincerity and finding yourself these days. </p><p>Richie doesn’t need to let this unhinge him. </p><p>“Alright, dude, it’s 3am. I’ll let you go,” he says after a moment of stuttering around. </p><p>“It’s fine, I’m awake now. So if you want to talk…” </p><p>“Nah, you’re fine. We’re on our way to Budapest and I need to get back to the car. I can see Eddie tapping his watch from over here.” </p><p>He can’t, really. Across the parking lot Eddie is doing stretches like that’s a normal thing to do in front of God and the World. He always wears loose-fitting jersey pants when they’re driving because <em> jeans are bad for your circulation on a long drive, Richie, I don’t want to get a blood clot </em>and Richie feels a little lightheaded watching him do a forward fold from over here. It’s probably the bad circulation? Must be the jeans. </p><p>“Okay, Rich,” Mike says all the way over in LA. Richie imagines him sitting on Bill’s old couch while Bill sleeps next door, thinks about how Mike will slide into bed with him in a minute, will kiss his shoulder and wrap him up in his arms, and the longing knocks the wind out of his chest. Longing not for Mike, of course, not in this universe. In this universe Richie looks at Eddie, who is holding his arms high up above him with interlaced fingers and a straightened spine and when Richie waves at him Eddie breaks the stretch and waves back. </p><p>“I’ll catch you later,” he says to Mike. </p><p>“Alright, man. Drive safe.”</p><p>He laughs as he walks back towards Eddie and their shitty SUV. “Pretty sure we have the sturdiest car in all of Slovakia,” he tells him. And then, “Goodnight, Mikey.” </p><p>A soft click. He smiles to himself. </p><p> </p><p>A few hours later, Richie opens the car door in the small parking lot of the apartment block they’ll be staying in and the heat hits him like a brick wall, a shock to the system after six hours of being lured into a false sense of security inside a pleasantly air conditioned car. </p><p>“Holy shit,” he says and slams the door shut again.</p><p>Eddie stops fiddling with the car’s GPS long enough to look over at him and ask, “What?” </p><p>“It’s fucking hot,” Richie elaborates. </p><p>“It’s July, so.” </p><p>“Thanks, Mr. Science Man,” he quips and stares at the way the air shimmers with heat above the concrete outside, like pools of water on the ground. “It was July six hours ago when we got in the car, too. I don’t recall being boiled alive then.” </p><p>“Drama queen.” Eddie’s voice is dripping with an eye roll that Richie can’t see. He opens the door on the driver’s side and gets out of the car. Richie reluctantly follows suit. </p><p>“Oh, shit,” Eddie says.</p><p>They look at each other over the roof of the car. Richie can already feel the prickling of sweat in his armpits and in the dip of his collarbones as his body tries to deal with the ripe and humid heat. Eddie wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. </p><p>“Let’s get the fuck inside and hope this place has decent A/C,” Richie says and goes to unload the trunk. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t get any better. When they leave the apartment that evening the air outside simmers undeterred, not a breeze in sight to stir it into movement. The walk to the nearest supermarket is only something like fifteen minutes but it feels like hours. </p><p>They take refuge in the frozen aisle of the store and take turns trying to be inconspicuous about sticking their heads into the freezers. They make it nearly half an hour, adding bits to their shopping basket along the way to give off the impression that they’re actually shopping, before a bored looking woman in a Kaiser’s uniform comes over and politely asks them to make their way to the till. </p><p>“Holy shit,” Richie echoes when they step outside again. “This can’t be our life. It’s like 8pm, this temperature should not be happening right now.” </p><p>Eddie fans himself with a flyer he picked up in the store. </p><p>They trudge home, sluggish and sweaty, and spend the rest of the night sitting on the floor of their living room fighting for the breeze of the singular electric fan that the apartment offers to make up for the shit A/C, eating chunks of frozen Mango and listening to Stevie Nicks crooning about the stillness of remembering what you had and what you lost. </p><p>In the sweaty heat of the apartment, trapped inside by the old brick walls of a house not built for this weather, Richie feels exposed and uncomfortable but Eddie is there and that is enough to make it something of a fun time. They talk and laugh, giddy with something like delirium. It’s good, even with both of them red-faced and damp, feeling like steam is rising from their skin. Even with a single fan, its weak effort barely enough for one person. Even like that. </p><p> </p><p>He takes a cold shower before bed and leaves his bedroom window wide open to let in the cooler air of night but it makes little difference. The bedsheets stick to him like wet leaves and he tosses and turns all night, trying to escape something but never quite getting there. He dreams, disjointed and feverish, of picking ripened berries in the blistering sun, of a bonfire at the farm and Mike recoiling from the licking flame, of Stanley pushing his head down at the Barrens and the water is torrid slime. Childhood memories distorted, like caricatures.</p><p>He makes it to 7:23am before giving up all pretence of sleep. Already, the sun is creeping into the bedroom. He peels himself off the sweaty sheets and crosses the room to close the window and lower the blinds. </p><p>After another cold shower that he tries to take as quietly as possible so he doesn't wake up Eddie he steps into the kitchenette to find that he shouldn't have bothered. Eddie is perched on the counter with the fan pointed directly at him and blowing his hair into disarray, wearing nothing but a pair of linen shorts and, inexplicably, red ankle socks. He is leaning into the breeze, his mouth slightly open and head tilted back, and Richie thinks he should have his tongue out like a panting dog for all that he looks like one. </p><p>"Hey," Eddie says. "Are you dying, too?" </p><p>It's not that he hasn't seen Eddie shirtless in these past few weeks, enough so even that he can now brace himself for the impact and keep from descending into some sort of horny frenzy, but something about the way the valleys of Eddie's collarbones are shining with sweat and the deep flush of red creeps up his chest and face leaves Richie struggling for air. </p><p>He curls his fingers into tight fists, blunt nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm, and counts to ten. Then he unclenches, feeling a little more real. </p><p>"Just go sit in the shower like a real man," he quips and steps in front of Eddie, blocking the airflow. </p><p>"Die," says Eddie. He pushes him out of the way and his hands are hot on Richie's shoulders where he can feel them through the cotton of his t-shirt. </p><p>Richie stumbles, not with the force of the shove but the force of his nerve endings firing up somewhere down below. He gets a glass from the cupboard and the ice from the freezer that they bought at the supermarket yesterday, then fills it at a ratio of about 70% ice to 30% water. He takes a desperate gulp, so eager he nearly chokes on it. </p><p>"We can't go out like this," he says with a hopeful peek in Eddie's direction. "If we can trust the weather app then tomorrow is going to be cooler."</p><p>Eddie looks at him, one single eyebrow raised. </p><p>"At least there is some sort of A/C here," Richie elaborates. "And a fan. We can try to figure out if the A/C is busted or just that weak in general, it might just need some fiddling." </p><p>"Okay," Eddie says after a moment of focused deliberation. "Just today, though. And only because it's absolutely apocalyptic out there." </p><p> </p><p>Richie makes them breakfast quesadillas with egg, spinach and avocado while Eddie gets dressed, and they eat perched on two chairs they dragged over into what Eddie deems the coldest part of the apartment — the hallway by the front door where there are no windows to let in any heat.</p><p>It's already so warm that Richie doesn't even want coffee, physically recoiling at the thought of putting anything hot into his body, and as he slurps his ice water he considers making cold brew out of the fresh beans they bought in Krakow so he can at least have some tomorrow morning. He says as much to Eddie, who gives him a pained look from behind his steaming mug and says, "Holy fuck, please."</p><p>As the sun crawls steadily upwards outside their apartment, the A/C struggles to keep up. They sit on the floor in the living room, bodies too sticky for the leather sofa, and Richie wonders if maybe the outside world would be kinder to them. They haven't given it a shot yet, and there could be a breeze that they're missing out on by sitting inside, some movement, a bit of fresh air at least unlike the oppressive, stagnant air of their living room pushed around feebly by the fan.</p><p>He suggests it to Eddie.</p><p>"You were the one who wanted to stay in, bro," Eddie says. "I don't think outside will be any better."</p><p>He says that sometimes, 'bro', like he's a frat boy. The fraternity of Wall Street snobs in Gucci loafers who own industrial espresso machines. Richie probably wouldn't be allowed into their frat parties, not even as Eddie's plus one, because he doesn't own a shirt that cost more than fifty dollars.</p><p>"We're not even doing anything, though," he counters. </p><p>"What is it you want to do?"</p><p>Mainly, Richie wants to take off his clothes. He feels disgusting, sweat dripping down his back, the collar of his shirt drenched and clinging to his throat like a vice, but he's not sure what level of adult friendship needs to be unlocked for you to hang out in your underwear when you’re not at the beach.</p><p>"Wanna watch some shit on your laptop?"</p><p>Eddie shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>Halfway through <em>Marge vs. the Monorail,</em> Richie has enough.</p><p>"Quick 1-10 scale check, how weirded out will you be if I take off my shirt?"</p><p>Eddie turns to look at him. "What?"</p><p>"I'm fucking dying, I'm so god damn sweaty." To illustrate, Richie peels the front of his shirt off his chest and then lets it go, grinning at the wet sound it makes when it slaps against his skin.</p><p>"Fucking gross." Eddie grimaces. "Just take it off, I don't care. What am I to you, a fucking Mormon?."</p><p>He doesn't need to be told twice. Before Eddie has even finished the sentence he's pulling up his shirt by the seams and over his head, and suddenly the fan's breeze is the best thing he has felt in his entire life. Every time it turns, squeaking and groaning, in his direction and the cool air hits his sweaty chest he leans into it a little more, chasing it. On the laptop screen, Homer tries to regain control of the monorail with Marge on the phone.</p><p>Not even five minutes later Eddie sighs and says, "Oh, fuck it," and then they're both down to their shorts.</p><p>Before the episode has even ended they've taken off the shorts as well and are sitting in just their boxer briefs, stewing in the warmth of the room. Although Richie is still uncomfortable, with his thighs sticking to the parquet floor and his hair is plastered to his forehead it's an improvement and right now that's all he can really ask for.</p><p>As the A/C fights for its life, Richie fights for his sanity. He keeps his eyes fixed on some point above Eddie's eyebrows when they speak, and stares at the tan, freckled skin of his chest, his shoulders, the dark hair dusted along his abdomen and around his nipples whenever he feels it's safe. Feels like he will die otherwise, possessed by things he can only blame on the fever thrumming inside of him.</p><p>They eat chunks of frozen fruit, mango and raspberry and pineapple, and Richie wants to lick the juice off Eddie's lips, he has to take gulps of iced water to quench the thirst of it. His teeth hurt every time he bites into an icy chunk of fruit. Whenever Eddie laughs at a joke on the show, or a joke Richie makes — he prefers those ones, sweet as they are, mango melting on his tongue — his gaze darts over to look at him, to catch him in the act, like he is witnessing something secret.</p><p>It has to be today, he thinks. If he's not brave enough now, loose-limbed and warm from the inside out, lips tinged raspberry red, then he won't ever do it. There's nothing to be afraid of here. This day, this apartment, it’s like a secret they share between them, and he can bring his own into it because Eddie is his best friend.</p><p>"You don't always have to be funny," Eddie said to him once, speaking into the darkness of Richie's childhood bedroom. The house was asleep around them and he had thought that Eddie was too until his quiet voice broke the silence. "It's okay if you're upset. Not everything has to be a joke.” </p><p>They were fifteen and the clown was a distant memory, more nightmare than reality. Beverly didn’t write to them anymore, then. Ben’s parents were talking of moving again, and in a few short months he, too, would forget to write. Then Stanley, and then Bill, escaping the horror and the grief, the sewers underneath this wretched city. Richie would be the last to leave, six months after Eddie’s mother took him upstate where the air was gentler and forgot to bring him back, and he would hug Mike goodbye and make unfulfilled promises of visits, phone calls, summer road trips. </p><p>He rolled onto his side and squinted into the darkness. Even if he could see through it, he wasn’t wearing his glasses and so he wouldn’t be able to make out anything but a blurry shape on the air mattress on the floor. </p><p>“Whatever do you mean, Dr. K?” he asked the darkness. </p><p>“Earlier, what Bill said,” Eddie said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s fine if that made you mad.” </p><p><em> What Bill said. </em> He hadn’t meant anything by it, he knew that, but coming from Bill Denbrough everything stung a little more, cut a little deeper than it would coming from anyone else. <em> R-R-Rich, no one g-gives a shit a-b-b-bout your f-f-fucking stand-up! Shut it for a s-s-second, we’re trying t-t-t-o get this p-p-presentation done. </em> And he was right to say it. Eddie and Bill were poring over their copies of <em> To Kill a Mockingbird </em> and trying to come up with enough things to fill a fifteen minute presentation slot, while Richie was prancing around on the couch with a hairbrush for a microphone, telling half-baked jokes to an imaginary crowd below. It didn’t do anything to soothe the sting of it, though. If anything, knowing Bill had a point only made it worse. </p><p>People had been telling Richie to shut the fuck up every single day of his life since he learned how to speak and he never quite got the hang of listening, even the <em> beep, beep Richie’s </em> could only keep him quiet for so long. If he could hear himself over the thrumming of his heartbeat he would probably tell himself to piss off as well. </p><p>Then, in Bill’s living room, he had deflated like an old balloon and thrown himself onto the couch dramatically, snapping some joke in retaliation, something about Bill’s mom that he couldn’t quite remember and that not even Eddie cracked a smile at. </p><p>“I’m not mad, dude,” Richie said. </p><p>“Well, it was kinda shitty of him to say so. It’s fine if you are.” A quiet inhale. “I care about your stand-up. Never repeat this to anyone, but maybe you’re kinda funny.” </p><p>Richie’s heart expanded in his chest, blooming like late-spring carnations. “So can I put you down as my groupie when I’m touring America in a few years?” He grinned widely where Eddie couldn’t see. “Just warning you though, I don’t sleep with fans.” </p><p>“Oh, piss off,” Eddie spat out. “Gross. I’d rather drink grey water than fuck you, asshole.”</p><p>Richie laughed a little too loudly at that, threw a pillow in his general direction and curled into himself like a question mark. </p><p> </p><p>They find an ancient coffee mill atop of one of the kitchen cupboards, or rather Eddie finds it, balancing barefoot on the counter and leaving sweaty footprints on the laminate worktop. Richie wants to touch the taut lines of muscles running along his thighs, his strong calves, would even settle for wrapping his fingers around an ankle and smoothing thumb over bone, blood boiling. </p><p>Instead he puts all of his energy into cranking the handle of the mill and grinding the beans until they’re coarse in the bowl beneath while Eddie sprays and wipes the countertops so they’re sweat-free and sparkling like the stars of a Lysol commercial. In a large jar he combines the grounds with cold water, then puts a lid on it and places it in the ridiculously tiny fridge below the counter. </p><p>“I’d say let’s give it twelve hours but I know I’ll want some tomorrow morning, so maybe an optimistic eight?” he says, closing the fridge door with a firm grip.</p><p>“This is why I don’t cook,” Eddie says and wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I need instant gratification. If I have to wait more than 20 minutes for something to be done it’s just not worth it.” </p><p>“Oh, dude, the coffee will be so fucking worth it, you’ll regret saying that. And anyway, shouldn’t all that yoga make you a more patient person?” </p><p>“It has,” Eddie says dryly. “Made me a more patient person, I mean. You should’ve known me five years ago.” </p><p><em> I wish I had, </em> Richie thinks. Takes a deep breath. </p><p>“I wish I had,” he says. </p><p>Eddie smiles, a slanted, gentle thing.</p><p> </p><p>“Chris got clean when she was pregnant,” Richie tells Eddie later, after reading another two pages of Bill’s fucking book, and after several failed attempts at writing jokes. He is lying flat on his back on the living room floor, stuck to it like a barnacle, and Eddie is sitting cross-legged a few feet away and typing away on his laptop. </p><p>He stops typing, then. </p><p>Richie tilts his head back to look at him sideways, and Eddie’s gaze feels heavy on him. </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, she was, uh, in bad shape or a long time,” he says. “I don’t know if you remember but she got big into opioids at the end of high school, barely made it to college alive. She dropped out after a year.” </p><p>“Oh,” Eddie says. “I remember. It was just before we moved away.” </p><p>“The pregnancy was an accident,” he continues. “She was twenty-seven, barely scraping by, and good old Mags and Went had cut her off ages ago. She called me one night and she was— fuck, man, she was hysterical. Like nothing I’d ever seen before. Her and her scumbag boyfriend were living in Chicago at the time and so was I, doing some radio gig that paid nothing. We weren’t even that close but she came to stay with me after that. He didn’t— he didn’t beat her or anything, but he was a scumbag.” </p><p>He peels himself off the floor and sits up, moving closer to the fan. The afternoon brought little in terms of reprieve and their only hope for now is the thunderstorm that the weather app is promising. They are both still shirtless although Eddie has put his shorts back on, which Richie doesn’t feel emotionally ready for yet. </p><p>Eddie doesn’t say anything, just nods plainly and waits for him to go on. It exposes Richie, the live wires in his chest, and he has to take a few deep breaths. </p><p>“So she stayed with me for a couple of months and then moved into some social housing project out of the city. It was rough, but she got clean and she hasn’t touched any of that shit since then.” </p><p>He stretches his legs, joints creaking. </p><p>“Point is, we can’t talk now without arguing about it. She thinks that—I don’t know, that because she got clean I need to stop drinking and shit. But it’s different for me, you know?”</p><p>“Is it?” Eddie asks, his dark eyes searching. </p><p>“Well, I’m not sure how much you know about the human body but I can’t get pregnant, Dr. K. I ain’t got the parts.” </p><p>Eddie groans. He lets his head drop heavily against the sofa cushions behind him and says, “You don’t have to be pregnant to get sober.” </p><p>Richie looks away, his gaze flitting across the room for something to latch on to. </p><p>“Chris did it for Leon,” he says. “I don’t know who I would do it for.” </p><p>It feels honest in a way he wasn’t expecting and he fights against the urge to tack on a joke to make it go away. Eddie would let him, he thinks. They do that sometimes when they get too close to the bone, they give each other an out, saying <em> it can end here if you want it to.  </em></p><p>“For yourself, dumbass,” Eddie says after giving him a moment to decide. An unspoken understanding. “What the fuck, man?” </p><p>“See, you keep saying words but I just don’t know what they mean,” Richie says lightly. “For myself? This isn’t a coming of age movie, Eds.” </p><p>“What the fuck does that even mean? You really need therapy.” </p><p>“Sorry, I can’t hear you over how well-adjusted I am." Richie covers his ears with his hands. “What? Sorry, what did you— there’s massive interference on my end, I’m going  through a tunnel, crsshk—"</p><p>"That doesn't even work on the phone," Eddie says, unimpressed. "You've done this to me like three times and it has never been believable." </p><p>Richie drops his hands and grins at him stupidly. "Sorry, man. A lot of tunnels in LA." </p><p>"I'm sure," Eddie drawls. He fixes his eyes on the laptop screen once again and he lets Richie get away with ending the conversation, just like that. </p><p> </p><p>Before the storm breaks that night, Richie shows Eddie how to make pesto from scratch with chopped pine nuts and fresh basil leaves. Then he finds out that Eddie doesn't understand the concept of salting pasta water like some kind of freak, so Richie banishes him from the kitchen and finishes making their meal by himself. </p><p>He makes a very basic salad out of cherry tomatoes, romaine lettuce and red onion to appease Eddie's desire for the illusion of health but he drowns it in olive oil like God intended and just decides not to mention that fact. Almost as an afterthought he pours Eddie a glass of white wine and then stands rooted to the ground, one hand clutching the bottle. Condensation drips down his white knuckles. He thinks about his sister sobbing on the phone sixteen years ago and he thinks about her curled up on the couch of his small apartment in Chicago, her arms wrapped around herself protectively. </p><p>He leaves without pouring himself a glass. </p><p>They eat in the living room at the small dining table they pushed up to the window, and the world outside is bathed in the orange light of a summer evening not quite turned purple sunset. At this point they are both wearing t-shirts again and Richie is thankful for it, glad to be free of the horny haze he spent the last six hours in. </p><p>Eddie compliments the pesto and Richie makes a joke in response but tucks it into himself, like a note into his pocket. </p><p>"Can I, uh," Richie starts and stops. </p><p>Eddie looks up from his phone where he was changing the song because he didn't approve of the one that shuffle offered them. </p><p>"What?" he asks, his eyebrows anxiously drawn together. </p><p>Richie cleans the last bits of pesto off of his plate with his fingers and sticks it in his mouth. Eddie makes a disgusted noise. </p><p>"I'm— There's something I want to talk about." </p><p>He is stalling, he knows this, saying random shit rather than just coming out (hah!) with it. At least he's self-aware. </p><p>"Okay," Eddie says. </p><p>Richie stares at him, wide-eyed. Eddie takes a sip of wine. </p><p>"Are you going to say anything?" Eddie asks after a solid thirty seconds of silence. </p><p>"Yes." Richie nods. "Yep, I am. Just let me—" </p><p>He gets up abruptly, his chair scraping along the floor with a loud screech, and legs it to the bathroom. For a brief moment he thinks that he might be okay, his nervous nausea waning as he stares at his reflection in the mirror, but then it hits him full force and he breaks into a cold sweat and promptly throws up into the toilet bowl. </p><p>He stays like that with his knees bent, hands on his thighs and his fingers digging into the flesh of them, until there's a sharp knock on the door. Grimacing, he straightens up and stares at the aqua tiled walls. </p><p>"Richie," Eddie says outside, his voice muffled. "What the fuck is happening?" </p><p>Richie laughs, a short and hysterical sound that is ripped out of him involuntarily. He turns the tap on and splashes cold water in his face. Avoids his eyes in the mirror. </p><p>"It's fine!" he yells. "I'll be out in a minute! Performance anxiety, if you know what I mean." </p><p>"I don't, no. You're not fucking performing," Eddie says. "Who the hell are you performing for?" </p><p>Richie grips the sink with shaking hands. He watches the water swirl around the drain and disappear down it and for a moment it is black as tar, the sound of crashing waves drones in his ears, hidden inside is a high-pitched whisper of <em> what's the matter, Richie? You scared, Richie?  </em></p><p>He closes his eyes and everything comes to a standstill. </p><p>When he opens the door, he does it with such force that the handle smacks against the wall with a loud bang. Eddie stands in the hallway, stray sunbeams cascading down the left side of him, his eyes wide and his thin bottom lip red where Richie knows he has been chewing on it, a nervous habit he has carried with him all his life. </p><p>"You okay?" Eddie asks with an uncharacteristic gentleness that makes Richie wonder how fucked up he looks right now. </p><p>"I'm gay," Richie says in lieu of an answer. </p><p>Eddie blinks, clearly taken aback. For a moment, Richie thinks he might laugh but then he squares his shoulders and says, "Alright. But are you okay?" </p><p>Richie covers his face with both hands and bursts into uncontrollable, full-bodied laughter. He shakes with it, coming apart at the seams like Eddie has unravelled him. Like he is unravelling, currently, and every moment he spends with him. Something breaks inside his chest like the upcoming storm and he can't pinpoint the exact moment laughter turns into sobs but then Eddie is there, a firm hand on his arm, warm and grounding. </p><p>"Yeah," he says finally, choked-up and teary-eyed. "I'm fine." </p><p>He rubs at his face furiously. His chest expands with a deep inhale and it comes out ragged. </p><p>"Hey, Rich, you're okay," Eddie says quietly next to him. He tugs Richie's wrists with soft fingers and Richie follows, his body boneless and pliant against him until he finds himself wrapped up in Eddie's arms and slouching so he can bury his face in his shoulder. "C'mon, asshole, don't cry."</p><p>Richie laughs wetly into his shirt. It's too hot for this, he thinks, but doesn't move an inch, too tangled up in the smell of him — of wine and soap and sweat. It’s the best hug he’s had in a long time, maybe his whole life, and he sinks into it like fingers into kinetic sand. It's difficult to feel pathetic with Eddie's hands stroking his back, palms flat and reassuring against him, but part of him still stings with it. A bruised ego, his dignity flushed down the toilet along with the contents of his stomach. </p><p>They stay like that for a long moment, minutes that pass them by in a hot haze while Richie takes shaky breaths and blinks away tears. He's an ugly crier, he knows this, so when he finally pulls back he turns his face to the side with an embarrassed smile. He pulls the collar of his shirt up to wipe at his eyes.</p><p>“I didn’t cry when I told anyone else,” he tells Eddie. “You really bring out the worst in me.”</p><p>When he finally looks at Eddie he is all dimples, smiling widely, but the shadows of his eyes betray worry.</p><p>“I don't think you can blame me for this one," Eddie says and takes a step back. "There's snot on my shirt so I'm just gonna—" He makes an aborted gesture with his hands in the general direction of his bedroom.</p><p>"Yeah, of course, sure," Richie babbles. "No worries, absolutely. Um, I'm gonna— Yeah, bye."</p><p>He makes a strategic escape into the living room.</p><p> </p><p>Much later, when the orange glow outside has long since shifted into Oxford blue, the sky breaks and spits rain down upon the unknown city outside with the ferocity of a rabid animal. As the wind rattles the windowpanes and the deluge pounds on the roof, Richie sits on the sofa in their living room with one of Eddie's legs draped over his lap and his hand resting on Eddie's knee — the intimacy of it makes his chest roar. It's colder now, enough so that physical touch isn't unbearable, and the deranged, humid energy of the day has subsided. He feels calm in a way that he hasn't in weeks.</p><p>The laptop is playing something or other on the coffee table, Richie has lost track of what reality TV show they're on now, and neither of them are paying much attention. Eddie is reading some article Bill sent them about Denver Airport, conspiracy theory shit that he is only reading so he can have a go at Bill about it later, and Richie is staring out of the window across the room and watching the apocalyptic storm rage outside.</p><p>"I'm proud of you, you know," Eddie says and nudges him with the heel of his foot. "Even though you cried on me. It takes guts." </p><p>"It takes guts to cry on you?" Richie asks and looks at him with a slight smile. "Yeah, I'd say. I'm surprised I lived to tell the tale."</p><p>"Fuck off." Eddie puts his phone down face down on the arm of the couch. "You know what I mean."</p><p>"Yeah, I do," Richie says. "But you know I'm allergic to sincerity. It gives me this really weird rash on my balls, actually, do you wanna see?"</p><p>He grabs the waistband of his shorts and starts pulling it down, but Eddie kicks him in the thigh before he can do worse than flashing some pubes.</p><p>"Keep your balls to yourself," he hisses. And then, "It's just good to know you're not a homophobe after all."</p><p>"I am a homophobe, dude. Just like, against myself."</p><p>"Don't make me say the T word again, Richard." Eddie burrows his foot under Richie's thigh and wiggles his toes.</p><p>"Turd?"</p><p>"Therapy."</p><p>Richie sticks his tongue out at him and Eddie flips him off, then goes back to his conspiracy theory article. Outside their apartment a crack of thunder shakes the foundations of the city and he feels it in his bones. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In this chapter: Richie tries to be sexually attracted to someone other than Eddie. Buzzfeed writes several articles about him. Eddie gets divorced and takes control of his narrative.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific content warnings: </p><p>Mentions of alcoholism. Mentions of homophobia. Mentions of canon-typical violence. Mentions of recreational drug use (specifically cocaine).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The storm shocks the heat into submission so when Richie opens the window the next morning the air is thick and humid but colder, pleasantly warm instead of an unbearable burning. It's still early and he doesn't doubt that temperatures will rise with the sun but it's a good start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels loose-limbed and content, finally free of being incessantly drenched in sweat and of the looming threat of having to be honest. All of his friends know now, or at least the ones that matter, and the world seems a little brighter. Maybe this will even land him a Netflix special, he thinks to himself as he clips his fingernails over the bathroom sink. People gobble that shit up, the self-discovery, the drama of it all — straight people love to hear jokes where the punchline is gay self-hatred. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And in the end, I took one look at this motherfucker across the table and said to myself, aw, shit, I guess there's the reason my type was always straight and married and it’s not just that I hate myself, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he will say and they will laugh the loudest as he sweats through his shirt and parades around the stage like a pony at an auction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So does he want to come out, then? He scrubs at his fingers with the nail brush until they're slippery with suds and a raw shade of pink. He could. Everyone who matters knows. And as much as he thrives on attention and validation, ultimately he doesn't care if he loses some of his audience over it. This could be a fresh start, a chance to finally step out of that comfort zone. It would be easier than calling a therapist, he thinks, or at least the results would be more immediate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dries his hands on the soft, white flannel by the sink. For the first time in about three weeks, his nails are clean and neat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he walks into the kitchen, Eddie is filling two glasses with ice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Howdy, pardner," Richie says and does a big, exaggerated cartoon yawn, arms stretched overhead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks exhausted with his presence already. "Morning," he says and gets the big jar of cold brew out of the fridge. "I already strained it. Do you want yours diluted?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, 50/50, please. I'll take some milk as well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heathen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You asked, bitch," Richie says and flops down onto one of the chairs at the small kitchen table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If I’d known your answer was going to be so bad I wouldn't have bothered," Eddie sniffs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, he makes Richie's coffee exactly how he wants it and sits down across from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks, honeypie," Richie chirps. He takes a sip and the icy coffee feels good on his mouth — it cools his whole body down as though he's a dog. "So I'm thinking about just posting it on Instagram."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Posting what on Instagram?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My nudes," he says. "The whole gay thing, what else?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'The whole gay thing'?" Eddie repeats, making air quotes with his hands. "Have you spoken to your manager? Or like, a PR person?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not a cop, so no," Richie says. "I'm not making some big announcement. I just thought I'd put it out there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If that's how you want to go about it, sure," Eddie says and shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wraps his hands around the cold glass. Condensation drips down his fingers. "I sense a judgement in the Force."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's just," Eddie starts. "I don't know. Do whatever you want. But maybe you should text your manager."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you risk-managing me, Spaghetti?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you still using elementary school nicknames, Chee?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs loudly. "Please, not Chee! I can't live that life anymore.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “So, you risk-managing me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I guess I am," Eddie says. He's a little sheepish but like, angry about it. "Sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don’t worry, baby, you can analyse my risks any day." Richie winks at him and because he can't actually wink it's more of a wobbly squint. Instantly, his stomach clenches and the back of his throat burns. Can he still say that kind of shit now that he has blown his heterosexual cover? It feels like a confession without it, more than it ever did before, and it must only be a matter of time until Eddie catches on. If he hasn't already, that is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eddie just smiles, although he is clearly trying to fight it. "You can't just say things, you know? Words have meaning." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie finishes his coffee in one large gulp. The back of his neck stings with sweat. Maybe it's pity, he thinks, maybe Eddie knows but he’s letting Richie get away with dancing around it so he doesn’t have to reject him outright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really needs to get his shit together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not texting Steve," he tells him. "He can find out with the rest of the world. Although I'm pretty sure he has me blocked on Instagram." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie posts a picture of himself that Eddie took a few days ago in front of the statue of a naked man, pointing at his dick with a scandalised expression on his face. He's wearing a shirt that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm not gay but $20 is $20</span>
  </em>
  <span> that Eddie got red-faced angry about but Richie wore anyways because he thought it was the funniest thing ever. He captions it '</span>
  <em>
    <span>turns out i don't actually care about the money, i'm just gay. netflix hmu?</span>
  </em>
  <span>' and then quickly exits out of the app, heart thumping furiously in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't look at his phone for the rest of the day. Every time he thinks about it he breaks out into a cold sweat and feels slightly nauseous. He should have texted Steve, he thinks to himself but he will never admit it out loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is very cool about it, even though Richie catches him googling 'richie tozier news' at one point when he peeks over his shoulder. Not once do they talk about it, neither the Instagram post nor 'the whole gay thing', and he thinks that Eddie must sense that Richie is close to vomiting every time he so much as thinks about it and he's being a supportive friend by keeping his mouth shut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Budapest, like every other city they’ve been to, is beautiful and old. There's history in the walls of every building and even contemporary ones seem to tell some kind of story. They go on another one of those city tours, unfortunately without electric scooters this time, and a woman with a thick, Hungarian accent tells them about Carl Lutz, about the Jewish heritage of the city, and about the revolution of 1956. It's still hot but it feels less like he's about to collapse from heat stroke and more like the kind of heat he is used to in LA. Eddie complains regardless and slathers himself in sunscreen again and again, a layer so thick that he looks paler than Richie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the early evening they escape the bustling city centre to dip into one of Budapest's thermal baths. This one promises a 500 square metre wave pool and thermal massages to cure your ails, so of course they're drawn to it like moths to the light. While Richie stuffs their backpacks in one of the lockers provided, Eddie speaks to the receptionist and books them in for — well, whatever the hell it is he's booking them in for. He's happy to let himself be surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they're both in their swimming trunks — Richie's obnoxiously pink and pineapple-patterned, Eddie's a sensible, boring navy blue — they follow the signs to the massage rooms. An absolute hunk of a man greets them when they get there, tousled black hair and dark eyes, with broad shoulders, tan skin and the ghost of his abs visible through his white shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His name is Zoltán and he will be his masseur today. Richie thinks it might be love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You want forty-five minutes, yes?" Richie's future husband (no, not Eddie) asks as he leads him into his chamber. Over his shoulder, he watches Eddie talking to another man and he notes gleefully that Eddie's guy is a little ugly, very middle aged and seems unfortunately chatty. How's that for gay rights?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whatever it says on your chart, pal," Richie chirps. "I didn't book it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, forty-five minutes for you. It is right," Zoltán says. His voice is gruff and beautiful and fits him perfectly — Richie wants to sink into it like a waterbed, or like his strong embrace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at the mosaic-tiled ceiling above and tries not to objectify his masseur who is literally just here to do his job and doesn't need a sexually frustrated stand-up comedian making eyes at him. Inevitably, like a moth drawn to the light, he thinks about Eddie instead because he has to channel this energy somewhere and of course objectifying his best friend is much better. He thinks about the shadowed shape of his hip bones where they dip below his swimming trunks, the dimples above his ass that Richie should not be so familiar with but that he can't help being drawn to whenever Eddie's shirt hikes up, whenever he sees him bare-chested. He thinks about how the muscles of Eddie's back would feel underneath his hands if he was the one giving him a massage instead of Mr. Ugly and Chatty over in the other room. Tense, probably. Knotted, like the bark of an old tree, given the way Eddie walks through life like he is one bad headache away from a brain tumour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does do a lot of yoga, Richie reminds himself. Thinking about how flexible Eddie must be after five years of that gives Richie a semi and a stress ulcer. He bites down on his tongue, hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zoltán lights a scented candle in the corner of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Undress, please," he says politely and Richie flushes from the tips of his ears down to his belly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Demanding," Richie quips. "You treat all the girls this way?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zoltán looks at him, uncomprehending. He gestures towards Richie's swimming trunks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes the hint and peels them off. Feeling frustratingly self-conscious, he balls them up and puts them on a chair nearby. He reminds himself that Zoltán has most definitely seen uglier people naked in his life and it makes him feel marginally better. He straightens up, half-heartedly covering his junk with one hand, and squares his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn't really how he expected his day to go. It's certainly not the reason he wants to be naked in front of an attractive dude, and it's not even the attractive dude he wants to be naked with but at this point he will take what he can get. At least he is getting a massage out of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lie down, please," Zoltán says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Front or back, amigo?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grimaces. "Uh, how should I lie down?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." Zoltán steps forwards and pats the massage table. "Belly, please."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie doesn't need to be told twice. With his face squished into the headrest at least he doesn't need to look at the guy's abs any longer and think about how they're not doing it for him as much as they probably should be, how he wishes his chest was a little less hairy, his limbs more wiry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He used to be content looking at hot men. Before Derry, despite being mostly closeted, he would happily ogle an attractive guy when he was certain no one was looking or in the privacy of his own home and he wouldn't waste a thought on how to improve what was before him, happy to take it as it came. Now it seems as though everyone is forever lacking, like there's an itch on his back he can't reach and no matter how much he rubs his back against the wall like a cat it's never quite scratched. Every man he sees is too tall, too buff, too chubby, has too much lip, not enough dimple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zoltán drapes a towel over his bare ass and drips oil onto his back. The room smells like sandalwood and lavender.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows why he can't scratch the itch, of course. He isn't stupid. Unfortunately watching Eddie lick a bit of butter off of his thumb at the breakfast table is to him what a copy of Hustlers was to Bill in junior year — Richie found the tattered magazine underneath his bed when staying over one time and taunted him endlessly, saying that if he wasn't such a virgin he wouldn't need to look at porno mags to get his rocks off — and not even Hungarian hunk Zoltán can compete with the raw sexual energy of Eddie Kaspbrak, red-faced, yelling obscenities at the person who just cut him off on the highway in Slovakia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zoltán begins expertly digging firm knuckles into the knots in his lower back and Richie tenses reflexively. He seems to be expecting that, smoothes one warm palm down his side like Richie is a wild horse that needs to be soothed. He grins into the hole of the headrest at that, cheeks burning, but he can't deny that the gesture helped him let his guard down, hands unclenching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets himself sink into it, the feeling of strong fingers working his muscles, as he wonders how Eddie is getting on down the hall. He imagines him lying naked on his stomach, the tan panes of his back shining with oil, some stranger's hands digging into his tree bark muscles and he thinks about how strange it is that Eddie would choose to do this willingly, would let himself be touched like that for the better part of an hour. Eddie who, by his own admission, barely ever hugged his wife, who tenses up when a stranger brushes past him in a crowd, who gets annoyed when people sit a little too close to him on the subway — </span>
  <em>
    <span>unless it's you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, someone who sounds a lot like Bev points out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why is that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he did the maths and found that the health benefits of this shit outweighed his hangups about physical touch, or maybe Richie just misread him, got too complacent and stopped trying to figure him out at some point in the last few weeks. They never finished asking each other those thirty-six questions in the end. He doesn't remember exactly when they stopped and they didn't speak about why. Conversation flows regardless and he doesn't need that crutch, probably didn't even need it back when they first started. Talking to Eddie was never difficult for him — it comes naturally in a way few things do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zoltán kneads his shoulders with a strong, warm grip and Richie groans softly. The dude is finding spots that Richie didn't even know could be tense, turning him into putty on the table. He feels like melting, a puddle on hot stone, and it's getting harder and harder to keep his thoughts running in any one direction so he surrenders himself to it, the intense smell of the room, the warm hands all along his back, his arms, his thighs, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loses track of time somewhere along the way and falls into something that's not quite sleep, not quite trance. He only dips back into consciousness briefly when Zoltán tugs at his shoulder and tells him to turn over on his back and he goes straight back under as soon as warm palms run along the tops of his thighs, his shins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At what must be the end of his forty-five minutes Zoltán leaves him to lie there for a good ten minutes to mercifully let him recuperate. He gets up eventually and walks like a baby deer on trembling legs over to the chair with his swimming trunks, surprised that he has it in him to stand up straight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels disoriented and his mouth is dry. The room is hazy around him. For a brief moment he thinks about lying back down and going the fuck to sleep but in the end the need to bug Eddie and drink some water outweighs that urge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fumbles on his swimming trunks and staggers down the hallway where Eddie is already waiting for him. His skin is as shiny as Richie imagined earlier; he looks as loose-limbed and wobbly as Richie feels, his face uncharacteristically relaxed. Blissful, Richie thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't last very long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry you got saddled with the ugly guy," Richie says and that does the trick. Eddie's eyebrows draw together, outraged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't care how </span>
  <em>
    <span>attractive </span>
  </em>
  <span>he is, Richie, what the fuck," he snaps. "He's a masseur, not a prostitute!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, dude, what? Your guy didn't even let you finish? What a waste of money."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks like he wants to hit him but he's also fighting back a grin which makes for an interesting facial expression. "You're so disgusting," he says. "Let's shower and get into that wave pool."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Now you speakin' my language, mistah," Richie says in an unfortunate accent and slings his arm around Eddie purely to test a theory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie doesn't move away and he doesn’t tense up. He simply lets Richie pull him down the hall and leans into him as they go. </span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Richie two days to muster up the courage to face the consequences of his actions. They're driving down the E61 just outside of Ljubljana on their way to Venice and have just switched places so now he is lounging in the passenger seat while Eddie tests how high his blood pressure can skyrocket before he straight up has a heart attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The radio is blasting Mama Cass, Richie's choice, and he is hollering along, his arm hanging out of the open window. It's too loud to talk with the wind whipping past the car and the volume turned up high which is fine by him. He has been itching for it since that morning but never quite trusted his mood enough to unlock his phone and tap the little lens icon on the top right corner of his home screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friends have been explicitly instructed by Eddie not to mention any news articles or commentary they might see about the whole affair and so he has essentially been living under a rock since he posted the picture two days ago. But it’s not like he hasn't been curious. More than once over the course of forty-eight hours he has typed his own name into Google and then stared at it for several minutes until backspacing and throwing his phone across the room or handing it to Eddie without a single word. Eddie, who always took it silently and kept it in his inner pocket until Richie asked for it back a few hours later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down at his phone now. Mama Cass tells him to make his own kind of music, go his own kind of way. He taps the Instagram icon and waits anxiously as the wheel turns, loading posts from the last two days. Once they’re up he thumbs straight to the post on his profile and stares at the unfathomable number of comments and likes. His heart is hammers relentlessly in his chest. He wishes he told Eddie he was about to do this so that he could stop him if Richie decides to throw himself out of the moving car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clicks on ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>View all 1,736 comments</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ and scrolls numbly through rows of emojis, </span>
  <em>
    <span>wtf lols, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and heartfelt replies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[</span>
  <b>callumisdabomb</b>
  <span>             2 d] </span>
</p><p>
  <span>whoa curveball lol! Proud of you buddy! </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[</span>
  <b>hedda.pet  </b>
  <span>                       1 d] </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not sure if this makes up for like 12 years of sexist stand-up but it’s a step in the right direction I guess haha </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[</span>
  <b>harlen_dixie                      </b>
  <span>1 d] </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hope this is a bit bro wtf </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once he gets to the first slur he stares at it for a moment, unblinking, then clicks on the replies to that particular comment, driven by morbid curiosity more than anything else. A familiar username jumps out at him and he drops his phone in his lap and bursts into hysterical, full-bodied laughter, loud and obnoxious, head thrown backwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck!” Eddie hisses next to him and turns the music down. Then he says, “Oh shit,” and grabs Richie’s phone out of his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs so hard his chest hurts and tears spring up in the corners of his eyes. He clutches his belly and wheezes, completely undone by some dude with the username xxtexasxx calling him a filthy queer on the internet and the small, angry reply by e_kaspbrak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>[e_kaspbrak</b>
  <span>                           1 d]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>@xxtexasxx bet your wife fucking hates you, limp-dick lowlife</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie's comment has 107 likes. Richie plans to make it 108 once he gets his phone back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So you remembered your Instagram password?" Richie asks once he's calmed down enough to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," Eddie says tersely. He frowns down at the comments, eyes flicking back and forth between that and the road. He might be an absolutely deranged driver who sees speed limits as more of a challenge than a rule but he still places great importance on paying attention to traffic, even on a long stretch of sparsely populated highway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks for defending my honour, Eds," Richie says with a lopsided smile. "You're a real keyboard warrior, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck off." Eddie shoves the phone under his thigh, trapping it there. "Don't look at that. You don't need to pay attention to that shit, bro."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"People wrote nice things too! Someone said it's a step up from my sexist crap!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, it is," Eddie says. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, a distracting and repetitive sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks at him, at his face illuminated by the sun, at his hair whipping in the wind. He seems relaxed in a way he rarely does when driving and Richie wants to reach across and touch him, wants nothing more than to interlace their fingers on the armrest between them, feel the warmth of his sun-kissed skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles for diving across to wiggle his hand into the space underneath Eddie's thigh and grabbing his phone. It's an excuse to touch him more than anything else but he does actually need his phone back and if Eddie didn't want his hand near his ass he shouldn't have chosen that spot to hide it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie yelps and tries to grab his wrist but Richie is faster. He holds his phone up triumphantly to the other side and almost drops it out of the open window in the process, so eager is he to show off. He isn't quite sure if he imagines the way Eddie's gaze linger on the stretch of his chest, his arm, and he files that information away to be processed at a later time, or potentially never. Probably never.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I need to check my emails, dude," Richie says. "You know, like a responsible adult? You're usually all about that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine," Eddie snaps. "But don't look at the fucking comments. People are assholes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie unlocks his phone and goes into his Gmail inbox. He scrolls through a page worth of spam, making a mental note to unsubscribe from the 600 fucking marketing newsletters he is apparently on the mailing list for, until he finds Steve's latest email from the night before. He hovers over it and chews on his lower lip. The subject line reads ‘STOP IGNORING ME’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You think I can't handle a few slurs?" he says instead of opening it. "How do you think I got through high school?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Eddie doesn't respond Richie looks over at him. His face is pinched, eyebrows set in a furious line. He looks like he's about to break the space-time continuum so he can jump into Derry and kill Henry Bowers all over again. His knuckles are white where he's clutching the steering wheel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, chill out," Richie says good-naturedly and reaches out to slap his hand on Eddie's shoulder in a way that he hopes is supportive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't fucking— I don't need you to comfort me about this, fuck." Eddie flexes his hands on the wheel and shakes his head, shoulders relaxing minutely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie huffs a laugh. "Man, you're a real ally, huh? This is the kinda support the LGBT community needs."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. "Yeah, sure, I'm a real fucking hero."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks back down at Steve's email and skims it. It's not as bad as he thought it would be — he only threatens to drop Richie once and doesn't seem all that serious about it — but he can practically feel the stress emanating from his screen, every word dripping with the subtextual '</span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck did you do that for, Richard?</span>
  </em>
  <span>'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sends a quick reply apologising somewhat sincerely and saying he's free the next day for a phone call, and he cc's Zoey into it because she is probably having a similar aneurysm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that he braves Twitter where his mentions are about as messy as his Instagram notifications. People are writing think pieces about him.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Buzzfeed</span>
  </em>
  <span> have done two articles already and will probably publish a third before the day is through. There's an article on him on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pink News </span>
  </em>
  <span>which makes him feel instinctively afraid, stomach clenching fearfully as though he is living the nightmare he has had his entire life about being outed by exes, hotel staff or friends. He has to stare out of the window and take deep, gulping breaths until he settles back into this reality where he made that choice and no one else did it for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His personal favourite is</span>
  <em>
    <span> Buzzfeed's </span>
  </em>
  <span>article</span>
  <em>
    <span> 21 Tozier Tweets That, In Retrospect, Do Sound Kind Of Gay. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He retweets it and reads the whole thing out loud to Eddie who laughs so hard Richie worries they'll have to pull over so he doesn't crash the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It ends on a real highlight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>#21</span>
</p><p><span>[</span><b>@trashmouth</b> <span>Oct 19, 2016]</span></p><p>
  <span>sore jaw, don't care</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs until he cries. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's early in the evening and they've just come home from a day trip to the Venetian islands on their second day in the city when Eddie gets a phone call that makes his eyebrows do something complicated and the corners of his mouth set in an unhappy downturn. He excuses himself to step out onto the tiny balcony of their charmingly Italian apartment and shuts the bay doors behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie watches him as he leans on the iron wrought railing, the lines of his shoulders tense. He hears his muffled voice through the glass but can't make out any words and he thinks that if Eddie wanted him to listen in he wouldn't have stepped outside, so he goes for a much needed shower instead of staring at him like a creep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he comes out of his bedroom twenty minutes later, freshly showered, shaved and moisturised (he can only hear about the dangers of not moisturising after long-term exposure to the sun so many times before caving and getting a basic moisturiser from the drugstore), Eddie is sitting on the sofa with his feet up and drinking red wine from the bottle, his hair is in disarray like he has been running his hands through it and his cheeks are flushed, from alcohol or the sun. When he looks up at Richie, his face splits into a huge, cheshire cat grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good news?" Richie asks, uncertain. He stops a few feet away to assess the situation before he makes a decision on whether or not he should sit down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm divorced," Eddie says like one might say 'I just won the lottery' or 'I just killed an evil clown'.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh, yeah, dude. You've been divorced for a while."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolls his eyes and takes another gulp of wine, his head tipped back and exposing the tan flesh of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, we've been separated for a while," he says. "But today the divorce papers were served and Myra signed them without contending any of the contents.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie throws his arms up and whoops. "Holy shit, Eds, you're a free man!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs freely in a way he almost never lets himself laugh, his head thrown back and hand on his face, sounding like he can't quite believe it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie feels raw with how much he loves him, his blood thrumming with fondness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll be honest, I had no idea there was a difference between separation and divorce," he tells him as he sits down on the other end of the sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How did you make it to forty-two without knowing that?" Eddie slides further down the cushions so he can put his feet in Richie's lap. He's been doing that a lot recently and he is not sure when it started but it makes him feel unhinged every single time, even more so when he finds the courage to wrap his fingers around Eddie's ankles like he does now. The implications of that simple action make him feel hot all over, ready to burst — into song or into flames, he couldn't say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shrugs. "I don't have many married friends. Even fewer divorced ones."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wine?" Eddie asks, holding out the bottle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh, I'm— Not really, no. Thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie retracts his arm and clutches the bottle to his chest, wide-eyed. "Oh shit! Sorry," he says. "Are you—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay." He pauses, his face softening. "That's good. I wondered about that, these past few days."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie doesn't want to talk about it. He wouldn't know what to say, doesn't really know what he is doing. "So, how are we celebrating the fact you'll have to pay alimony to your shitty ex-wife for the rest of your life?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She's fine," Eddie says. "Myra, she's— Don't insult her."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wasn't she like, super controlling? She sounds kind of shitty."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I brought just as much bullshit into that relationship as she did. We were terrible for each other. Mutual shittiness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie thinks that maybe Eddie is being hard on himself but he doesn't want to spend time arguing when they could be celebrating. He slaps his hand on Eddie's thigh resolutely and then lifts his feet off his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, enough of that shit. Let's go wild!" He gets up off the couch and holds his hand out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie takes it, gets to his feet and smiles at him, a bashful little thing so unlike him it’s staggering. "I don't know how wild I'm feeling right now,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you kidding? You're drinking wine out of the bottle and your hair is all messed up," Richie says and pulls him into the kitchen. "That's already so wild for you, a little more won't hurt. Let's wash our whites with our colours! Let's give a funny fake name for our takeout order! The world is your oyster, Edward."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” Eddie says. “If I wanted pink t-shirts I would have bought pink t-shirts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie starts pulling random ingredients out of the fridge and cupboards, piling them up on the counter. A yellow onion, a bulb of garlic, a punnet of mushrooms, the bag of arborio rice he bought the day they got here, butter and white wine from the fridge, a slab of parmigiano reggiano he insisted on as well, although Eddie argued they would never eat it before it went bad but </span>
  <em>
    <span>it lasts for fucking ever, Eds, trust me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie leans against the counter and watches him move around the kitchen, his arms crossed and shoulders relaxed. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Burlesque dancing, Eds, what the hell does it look like I’m doing?” Richie takes a chopping board from the rack and sets it down on the side. “I’m going to teach you how to make risotto to celebrate your newfound freedom. As a bachelor, you need to be able to provide for yourself." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gestures towards Eddie with the knife he's holding. "This skill is going to impress the ladies, Eds."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not trying to impress any ladies," Eddie says with an exasperated sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie decides to bulldoze past any implications that might have, certain that they're unintentional. He peels the onion with deft hands and says, "Then who </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>you trying to impress with those abs, man?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No one, they're just for me. Core strength is important for good posture and overall health," Eddie says and pulls himself up on the counter so he can sit and watch Richie dice the onion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He likes doing that, sitting on random surfaces that aren't meant to be sat on like kitchen counters, sofa arms, tables, and it seems like the kind of thing he would tell Richie off for doing but somehow it's fine when he does it. For all that Eddie likes things to be a certain way and gets anal about the smallest shit, like laundry temperatures and sock organisation, he makes his own rules up more than he sticks to established ones — like speed limits, or how to approach interpersonal relationships. And one such Kaspbrak rule is that any flat surface can be sat on if the situation calls for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to help?" Richie asks with a ‘c’mon, man’ eyebrow-raise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't cook," Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, I know, I've experienced that first hand," Richie huffs. "But that's the fucking point. Welcome to Tozier's Culinary School for Hopeless Cases. Grab a knife and show me what you've got."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie finds out over the next hour that Eddie isn't terrible at the skills involved in the cooking process, like dicing onion, chopping mushrooms, and stirring the risotto for twenty minutes with his buff little arms but he has absolutely no intuition when it comes to flavours or improvisation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he says, "You just season and taste as you go," Eddie grinds so much black pepper into the pan that Richie has to do damage control by spooning bits of rice and pepper out and into the bin so he clearly hasn't got whatever gene makes you be decent at putting together a meal. But the important thing is that they’re having fun and that Richie can stand unnecessarily close to him under the guise of teaching him basic life skills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Eddie does most of the work while Richie fixes the mistakes he makes along the way and focuses on not drinking any of the wine they're using for the recipe. He rationalises that white wine in risotto is different from straight up drinking it since most of the alcohol is cooked off in the process, and he counts it as a personal victory that he doesn't drink half of the bottle while the rice simmers like he would usually do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still hate cooking,” Eddie says when they sit down on the couch with their bowls. “But maybe this wasn't a terrible experience."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie flicks through the menu of the smart TV and says, “Pretty sure you only had fun because you had about a gallon of wine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I had like two glasses, get off my ass."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I like being on your ass," Richie says absently. Then he stops blinking and breaks out in a cold sweat. "In a platonic way!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eddie snorts. "Yeah, I know," he says, a hint of something like frustration underneath layers of humour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's more Richie's shtick than Eddie's but no one is safe from using jokes as a coping mechanism. He's just not sure what it is Eddie is trying to cope with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Have you seen </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" he asks instead of digging into that. "I think you'd be all about that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure, put it on," Eddie says around a mouthful of risotto.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? It's your divorce party so you get to choose."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I'm choosing Ang Lee to commemorate the occasion."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grins, starts the film and finally tries the risotto. It's delicious — no thanks to Eddie, all thanks to Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is a pretty shit party," Eddie says just as the title of the film appears in Mandarin with a loud change in the music.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the hell are you talking about? This is one of the best parties I've been to in years," Richie says defiantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where's the music? The disco lights? Where's the cocaine?" Eddie pauses. "Ah, shit, maybe no cocaine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs. "Don't act like you wouldn't run screaming if someone offered you cocaine at a party."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I work on Wall Street, Rich," Eddie says. "I can't remember the last work party where someone didn't covertly try to offer me cocaine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?! And you've never gone for it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, what the fuck?" Eddie shoves a spoonful of risotto into his mouth, chewing angrily. His stupid deer eyes are bugging out of his head like he can't believe Richie would suggest such a thing. "It's probably a ploy to get me fired, everyone fucking hates me at work. Like that blueberry yoghurt bitch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eddie, Eds, what the fuck kind of vendetta do these people have against you that they'd be using drugs to try and get you fired? Do you shit on people's desks regularly or something?" Richie laughs incredulously. "Surely they could just file a HR report like normal people."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No one in my company is normal. They all have money-induced brain damage and think that because they drive a Mercedes they don't need to adhere to the laws of society."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't the laws of society indicate you can't eat someone's low fat blueberry yoghurt? Isn't that theft?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't know it was her fucking yoghurt, Myra bought the same brand!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sets his spoon down in his bowl and turns, slowly, to look at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" he snaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eddie, did your wife make you packed lunches for work?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie turns beet red and his eyebrows draw down like they belong on a cartoon character. Richie spends his whole life making jokes at other people's expenses when he isn't making them at his own but no one's embarrassment is quite as rewarding as Eddie's — he is expressive in a way few other people are, veins comically protruding on his forehead, his thin lips taking on shapes they shouldn't be able to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ex-wife," Eddie finally says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grins wolfishly. "Oh, my bad, let me rephrase. Did your ex-wife make you packed lunches for work?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not fucking funny, asshole," he snaps. "Plenty of people in my office bring lunch that their wives made."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I would make fun of those other children masquerading as Wall Street suits just as happily. But they're not here, are they?" He looks around as if he’s searching the room for other middle aged men who can't cook for themselves. "Nope, can't see them!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Have you ever shut the fuck up? Like once, in your entire life, have you shut your fucking mouth?" Eddie digs around in his risotto like he's hunting for treasure and frowning like it's an olympic sport. It's as close to a tantrum as a forty year old man can get and Richie is so, so charmed by him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No way, José," Richie says. "You're always on my ass for stupid shit I do. Don't dish out what you can't take."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She wouldn't let me make my own food, alright? Myra, I mean." Eddie turns, impossibly, a darker shade of red. "I didn't want to fight her on it at the start and then suddenly I was thirty-five years old and didn't know how to cook rice."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie feels bad but only for a brief second. Then he narrows his eyes. "I know what you're doing, you gremlin."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie widens his eyes, the picture of innocence. "Oh? What am I doing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're trying to make me feel bad because you had an emotionally abusive wife-mom and I'm making jokes about it," Richie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, is it working?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe a little,” he admits. “But you've lived alone for like a year now! That's enough time to learn basic cooking skills so I'm not letting you off the hook that easily."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks at the TV for the first time in something like five minutes. On screen, De Lu is telling Shu Lien that when it comes to emotions, even great heroes can be idiots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have no idea what's going on in this movie," Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Smooth topic change, Eds." Richie grabs the remote and rewinds a few minutes. "I'll allow it because this movie rules, but we're coming back to this at some point. You need to be self-sufficient, dude."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am self-sufficient," Eddie replies defensively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Half an hour you tried to add a pound of black pepper to a risotto for two people."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie smacks him over the head with the nearest throw pillow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That night, when he wakes up from his own nightmares and hears Eddie shout garbled words from his room he doesn't hesitate to get up. He pads across the hallway with a glass of water like he has done several times over the past two weeks, slinks into the dark room and sits on the edge of the bed with one hand coming to rest on Eddie's shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he has shaken the worst of it and his breathing is under control they sit together and talk about nothing until Richie's eyes get too heavy for the world. They sleep with their backs to each other but only inches apart, so close that when Eddie moves it rocks Richie’s very foundation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning when he wakes up Eddie is already in the shower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few days later in Porto Venere, Richie fucks up. He doesn’t know how or why but he definitely fucks up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are having dinner by the harbor that evening at a small, family-run restaurant that serves good fish and even better pasta. The maritime-themed interior is quaint and inviting, it has 4.3 out of 5 stars on TripAdviser the waitress is super nice about Eddie’s whole Thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie has the gnocchi ai frutti di mare and Eddie has some sort of squid situation with tomatoes. They share a portion of bruschetta. Eddie drinks half a litre of white wine by himself and Richie drinks a litre of coke zero, which Eddie says is worse than alcohol and does criminal damage to your stomach lining. Richie says that given the fact that he's an alcoholic the wine would probably be worse and Eddie doesn't argue with him which means he must pity Richie more than he initially thought. Along with some floral decorations there is a candle at the centre of their table and Richie makes several jokes about the romantic implications over the course of the evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, when they're sharing a portion of tiramisu with their heads ducked together as they fight for the last bite of it, Richie thinks that maybe this could be a date. He wants it with his whole body, shaking with the urge to reach across and wipe cream from the corner of Eddie's mouth, to lean a little closer and kiss him straight after. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead he steals the final bit of rum-soaked biscuit left at the bottom of the dish and leans back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Next time I'm getting my own," Eddie says, looking genuinely pissed off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not meant to eat this shit anyways," Richie shrugs. "What happened to being lactose intolerant?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm intolerant of you and yet I still hang out with you." Eddie wipes his lips with the napkin and Richie mourns the loss of cream at the corner of his mouth, the small temptation of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You always say such horrible things to me, Eds," Richie says with big, sad eyes. "I just wish you liked me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Try being more likeable, then," Eddie says. He finishes his wine in one, tilted-back sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie snorts and fishes his phone out of his pocket to take a picture of Eddie frowning at him from behind flowers and candle light. He posts it on Instagram without showing it to him, having long since passed the stage where he still vetoed what went up. If he really hates it Richie will take it down, that is the unspoken agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He captions it with a string of nonsensical emojis - stars, a cucumber slice, a wave, a shrimp, a cowboy, then puts his phone away again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie asks, "Why are you so obsessed with me?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're just so cute. I've gotta immortalise those rosy cheeks."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolls his eyes and tells him to fuck off, his standard response to Richie’s compliments. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After dessert he takes one look at the bill and decides Eddie can foot it this time because this is an equal travel-buddy-ship and he isn’t the one who ordered a 40€ bottle of wine so he dips to the bathroom. When he comes back Eddie is frowning at his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did Bill send another Infowars article?" Richie asks as he sits down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks at him with a pinched expression. "No," he says and turns his phone to show Richie what he's looking at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's the picture he posted on Instagram. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh," he says. "Hey, it's a nice photo!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not— It looks like we're on a date," Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie squints at the picture. And it does — the low light, the candles, the floral arrangement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I guess," he says. "But we're not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know that!" Eddie puts his phone face down on the table. "Whatever, forget I said anything," he says and gets up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's go home."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing is, 'forget I said anything' has never worked on Richie before and it certainly won't now. The phrase 'forget I said anything' activates the fucked up function inside his brain that guarantees he will not be able to think about anything but what was said, particularly when Eddie is the one who said it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night he turns the words over in his head while he brushes his teeth, while he gets changed into his pyjamas, while he lies awake and stares at the ceiling. In the morning he wakes up to find it rattling around his head like pills in a bottle.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It looks like we're on a date</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he said. And didn't his brows knit together above his eyes? Didn't his forehead wrinkle, his lips clam together? Didn't he look angry?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie doesn’t seem to be over whatever it was that bothered him last night which really doesn't help Richie's anxiety at all. He seems subdued and irritable. He snaps at him when Richie accidentally bumps into him in the narrow kitchen of their apartment and then again when Richie isn't ready to leave at exactly 11am because he forgot to pack his toothbrush and has to run back upstairs to get it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it's not like Eddie is usually a ray of fucking sunshine but he rarely gets angry at Richie in a way that feels real. He is always yelling at him but it's easily tipped over into full-bodied laughter with a well-placed joke, an unexpected response, some stupid impression. His yelling is just a built in response to Richie's stupid personality and, as far as he can tell, has nothing to do with a genuine dislike of him as a person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first two hours of the drive to France they sit and listen to most of Pulp's discography without saying a single word. Richie feels ready to burst, not used to being quiet for more than ten minutes but worried that anything that might come out of his mouth would only make things worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends his time fucking about on his phone in an effort to not break the silence like he so desperately wants to. He makes a pitiful attempt at writing some jokes in a Google doc, sends Ben a picture of a dog he saw yesterday, sends Bill that Buzzfeed listicle of his gay tweets although he has probably already seen it, reads two </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time Out</span>
  </em>
  <span> article about the south of France, blocks four of the homophobes in his Twitter mentions, reads an investigative article into fake AirBnB listings in the UK, and then finally he goes on Instagram to check on the 276 people he follows. He sees that his post from last night is doing some numbers and he contemplates deleting it, given Eddie's bizarre reaction. As he considers it, he goes onto e_kaspbrak's account to check if it has hit 2,500 followers yet but he is met with a notification telling him that 'this account does not exist'.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at his phone. He blinks. Then he turns his head to look at Eddie, eyes wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you get banned from Instagram for getting too aggro with people in my comments?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on the road, an almost imperceptible squaring of his shoulders the only indication that he heard him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you giving me the silent treatment?" Richie asks after a few seconds of nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I'm not," Eddie says sharply. "And no, I did not get banned."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So you deleted your account."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's eyes flick over to him and then straight back to the road. "Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dude," says Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dude," says Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, the mountainous landscape of northern Italy passes by in a blur, the air hazy with smoke from summer fires. Richie traps his hands underneath his thighs to keep himself from scratching his eyes out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can just delete the post," Richie says. "If it bothers you this fucking much."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whatever," Eddie says and Richie wants to yell at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuck is your problem, Kaspbrak?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie drums his fingers on the steering wheel, an angry sound. For a moment Richie thinks he might not say anything else but then, "Can we swap? I'm always the one who has to fucking drive."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shoots him a disbelieving look. "I thought you liked driving!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not here! Not like this!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine! Pull over, you fucking drama queen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie slams on the breaks. The seatbelt catches and digs into Richie's chest painfully. There's no one behind them which he thinks Eddie probably knew but it doesn't make the possibility of someone crashing into them any less palpable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuck," he mutters under his breath. "You got a death wish?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sometimes." Eddie manoeuvres the car onto the side of the road so that others can pass them, then unbuckles his seatbelt furiously and gets out of the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie is still in the process of collecting his hoodie, phone and water bottle when Eddie opens the door with more force than strictly necessary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Give me a fucking minute, jeez," Richie snaps and scrambles to get out of the car. "Who pissed in your cornflakes today?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't have cornflakes today," Eddie says like that is a normal thing to respond with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn't get any better for the duration of the journey — six hours featuring two coffee stops, something like 80€ in tolls, and half an hour of driving around Genoa trying to get back onto the E25 when Richie takes a wrong turn by accident during which he thinks Eddie might genuinely burst into flames from how stressed out he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They make it to Nice in one piece but only just. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After hauling their bags into the house and making quick work of unpacking — or rather, shoving his bags into the wardrobe and putting his toothbrush in the bathroom — Richie finds Eddie painstakingly hanging his shirts up in one of the other bedrooms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he says loudly and Eddie jumps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to face him, clutching the powder blue shirt that he was in the middle of hanging up to his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie clears his throat. “Are you going to tell me what your issue is?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie grips the shirt tighter, wrinkling it between his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks like he would rather be anywhere else. He looks like Richie has thrown a bucket of sewage water on him and he's going to get a staph infection — he can practically hear baby Eddie's hysterical anger, the sound of wet lichen dripping into the water echoed by the walls of the tunnel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie, I'm—" He stops. His neck is flushed red like it always is when he’s frustrated and Richie just wants to rewind and undo whatever it is that caused this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't understand what the fuck is going on and it's making him want to crawl out of his skin. He thinks back to last week when he sat across from Eddie in a restaurant in Krakow and he was certain that he knew what made him tick, that it was his inalienable right. He dedicated years of his life to figuring Eddie out when they were kids so he could get him to yell, laugh, scream at, or touch him. And yes, Eddie still managed to surprise him then but whenever he did Richie would file it away in his disorganised, scattered brain under things he knew about Eddie Kaspbrak so he would never be caught off guard again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He earned that. He wants that. Knowing Eddie is the best thing about him. Knowing him, understanding him, being whatever he can be for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe that's selfish but Richie has never presumed to be anything but.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"People are going to think we're dating," Eddie says finally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright," Richie says. "So you have a fucking problem with that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I kind of do," Eddie says and the words are like sandpaper against Richie's skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches for something, anything, finds the door handle and grabs hold of it. The metal of it is cold against his skin; its edges digging into his palms painfully. "Shit, man. I'll delete the fucking pictures," he says, voice hollow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie runs his hand across his face, the one that isn't holding on to his shirt. Richie can barely stand to look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck," he says, echoing what Richie is feeling. "I just can't, I— Shit, I just can't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I get it." Richie bites down on the inside of his cheek and it hurts, it hurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, you don't," Eddie grits out. "I just want to have control of this. The narrative."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the hell does that mean?" Richie shakes his head. "Actually, fuck this. I don't care."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns on his heel and gets the fuck out of there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The air outside is mild and smells of the ocean. The sun hangs low in the sky, just barely dipping below the waves on the horizon. Richie thinks that it should be storming, hailing, there should be thunder and lighting because at least that would make his breakdown more cinematic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chokes back tears as he stomps along the beach, feeling simultaneously like a petulant child and like the world is ending. It's pathetic. He’s pathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Running away from your problems, huh? Very mature, Richie. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shut the fuck up, Bill</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now is really not the time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lisa would probably have some things to say about the fact he talks to his friends when they're not there. She would definitely also have things to say about his response to Eddie, just now, to how embarrassed he is by the mere thought of people assuming they’re anything but friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He considers throwing himself into the sand and beating his fists on the ground like a cartoon character in a rage. Instead he toes off his shoes and socks, hikes up his trousers and wades into the ocean just to feel something other than intense embarrassment and misery. The water is cold where it laps at his calves. He digs his toes into the sand and stares out at the gentle waves, at the orange light of sunset reflecting off of them, and the sound of the sea rushes in his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn't that he really thought Eddie was into him or even that he wouldn't be weirded out by people assuming that they're a couple, he just didn't expect intense rage at the mere idea of it. It feels unfair. It feels like a rejection. And for all that he has been in love with Eddie for as long as he can remember, and even the decades that he couldn't, he has never actually been rejected by him because he never dared to put his heart on the line like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rejection was assumed rather than explicit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The closest he ever came to a confession was a year ago over the sound of a beeping EKG monitor in a town that never wanted them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don't tell anyone about this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I think you're really it for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eddie had stayed silent, unconscious as he was. When Richie had reached out to take his hand it was limp underneath his fingers. He expected to take that to his grave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck, he really wants a drink. He wants to call Bill, or Bev, or Mike. Ben, maybe, but that man is the most romantic person to ever walk the earth and he would most likely tell Richie to take a chance and tell Eddie how he really feels. Maybe he'll write a fucking haiku about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This fucking sucks, man </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Could have let me down gently </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sun sets on me, too </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the end, he doesn't call anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he walks along the beach with sandy feet, carrying his shoes in one hand with the socks balled up inside, he watches the sun set over France and he misses Eddie. It's strange to miss someone you saw half an hour ago but what it really means is that he thinks about how cold it was in the car on the drive up, how awful it felt to sit in silence with the only person he ever wants to talk to. There was nothing anyone could say to him, not Bev, not Bill, not Mike, and not Ben, that would make him feel better now — all he wants is to talk to Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it's so unlike him that he feels displaced, so unfamiliar is he with the feeling of wanting to talk it out rather than sticking his head in the sand and waiting for the storm to pass. It's out of character. Historically, he thinks that has been known to take any opportunity to get out of a difficult conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The want carries him home more so than his feet do. He hesitates outside of the house, its white walls looming over him like a threat, but Eddie is inside and that's all he needs to know. With a determined frown he cleans off his sandy feet, unlocks the door and steps inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the door falls shut behind him, the absence of the rushing ocean waves is deafening. He puts the keys down on the side and the jangling noise breaks the silence like ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds Eddie sitting on one of the cream white sofas in the living room, his knees pulled up to his chest and his hair an uncharacteristic mess. It looks like he never finished getting changed, still in his underwear and a white undershirt. Here, Richie's chest aches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie," Eddie says, shooting up from the couch like he's been stung. He stands there, his hands flexing at his side like he wants to reach out, and his eyebrows are drawn upwards in worry. "Hey. Hey, I'm sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie had a lot of things he wanted to say, came prepared with an arsenal of jokes, questions and apologies, but he hadn't factored Eddie into the equation. Somehow, this is unexpected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh," he says dumbly, rooted to the spot. "It's, uh. That's fine. Don't worry about it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I'm — I don't know if you get it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs nervously and scratches his head. "It's cool, I do. You're only just divorced, you don't want a bunch of people thinking you're gay and dating some schlubby comedian. It would ruin anyone's game."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, now I know that you don't get it," Eddie says. He takes one step forward, then another, but he still feels miles away. "Let me, uh, can we sit down?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure," Richie says and sits down on the edge of the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie follows suit but he leaves a good four feet between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not because it's you," Eddie tells him. "You're not— I wouldn't be embarrassed. If it was you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's face is hot and he interlocks his fingers in his lap and squeezes, anxious energy thrumming inside of him. He doesn't say anything. Not because he doesn't want to but because, for once in his life, he doesn't know what the fuck to say. He feels small, feels like everything he is could fit into the palm of Eddie's hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a lot of power to give to someone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just got angry because there's always been this— this narrative of me. I don't like feeling like I don't have control over it. Like people think something about me because my mother told them, or because Myra told them, or Henry fucking Bowers." He spits the name out like Richie hadn't killed him in the library. Like he still has to take him out now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That I'm sick, I'm fragile, I'm allergic to the fucking air around me, my lungs are bad, my legs are weak, I could never do the things other people do," Eddie continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I know that's not true, dude. You know that's not true," Richie says, the instinct to comfort and reassure outweighing anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, yeah, that's not the point," Eddie says quickly. "The point is: I like being in control of what people think about me, whether it's true or not. I am a lot of things and no one is entitled to know any of it unless I tell them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, I get it," Richie says even though he thinks that he probably doesn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, you don't," says Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, I don't get it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts and Richie smiles at that, hesitant but feeling better than he has all day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I got angry because the thought of thousands of people making assumptions about me based on your fucking Instagram posts feels too much like my mom telling the teachers that I have pneumonia and need to stay home for weeks and weeks when I barely even had a cold."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Being gay is like having pneumonia, got it," Richie says with a pensive nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Beep fucking beep, Richie." Eddie rolls his eyes and crosses his legs underneath his body where he sits. He looks small and exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed like he's tired or like he has been crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie hopes that he hasn't been crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll stop posting homoerotic content of you on Instagram, Eds," he says after a moment of silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, that's not— I don't want that. I think I would just like to take back some control."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie frowns, turning that over in his head. "Uh, do you want to decide what pictures go up? You can always veto things. Or captions, if they're about you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs and shakes his head. "That's not what I mean."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eds, you're really killing me here. It's like 9pm and I haven't eaten, I'm super tired, please be gentle. Richie needs you to use your words."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie needs to stop talking about himself in the third person," Eddie says with a grin, his dimples coming out in full force. "I guess there's things I want to tell people. About me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eddie," Richie groans. "I know you're going somewhere with this so please just get there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, asshole, I'm gay."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie chokes on his own spit and has to bend over his knees to cough it out. Eddie smacks him on the back with the flat of his hand. The coughing is great because it gives him a few moments to deal with the information but by the time he sits up straight again he isn't any closer to comprehending it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're gay," he says hoarsely, his eyes watering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," says Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You were married to a woman."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For like, a decade."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But you're gay."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're doing great, Rich."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut the fuck up, I'm processing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie grins and his eyes are bright. Richie likes him a lot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Plenty of gay men marry women," Eddie tells him. "And you can't really argue that my marriage was based on genuine sexual attraction. I married her because she reminded me of </span>
  <em>
    <span>my mother, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's ears are ringing. The words 'genuine sexual attraction' rattle around in his head like golf balls in a bucket because Eddie is sexually attracted to men. He is not sexually attracted to women. Genuine sexual attraction he feels to men. Men, much like Richie is a man! Good job, Yoda.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh my god, my gaydar is shit," he finally says. "How embarrassing. I've known you since we were in elementary school."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs, a breathless sound, and he thumps Richie on the shoulder. "Mike knew before I told him," he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You told </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mike</span>
  </em>
  <span> before you told me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Excuse me? You told Mike before you told me, too! In fact, you told everyone else before you told me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine, you win this round. But I'm not happy about it," Richie says. He drops his head against the back of the sofa with a thud and he grins widely, feeling loose-limbed and like his heart is too big for his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not like I was hiding it from you," Eddie says after a moment of companionable silence. "You're just a bit slow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, fuck you! You can't just drop hints and expect me to get it. It felt too much like wishful thinking."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as they're on his tongue he wants to swallow the words back down, revealing as they are, but they're there between them now and he will have to deal with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks at him quizzically, his eyes dark and heavy, and Richie can't stand it. He averts his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is dim around them, the only light source a floor lamp in the far corner, and through the bay windows he catches a glimpse of the ocean and the moon reflected in it. His palms itch where they're resting by his side. The gap between him and Eddie feels infinite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm," Eddie says. "It's getting late, we should probably eat."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie glances at him and their eyes meet. He feels hot all over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure," he replies. "I'll make us some pasta.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Richie and Eddie go for a midnight swim. Eddie worries about skin cancer. Richie makes a phone call. The author might be projecting but only a little bit.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is dedicated to Lynne <a>@beverlymarshian</a>. She is the best hype man I could have asked for and I just think she's neat. If you do anything today, please go read her fanfic <a>route 93</a> which is amazing and inspired the sunscreen scene in this chapter, and her social media AUs on twitter (@derrythrift, @au_transmission, @wttn_au). </p><p> </p><p>Chapter specific content warnings:<br/>Mentions of past canon-typical violence. Brief discussions of substance abuse. Recreational drug use (weed). Mild emotional distress. </p><p>Let me know if there is anything else in the chapter you would like to be warned for in the future (and I'll update this one too).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Have you actually dated any guys?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun beats down on them where they are walking along the coastal promenade in Nice. Eddie is licking at his scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream while Richie makes quick, messy work of his own bubblegum blue scoop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's nearly 100 degrees and the sun above is relentless but along with its waves the ocean washes ashore a breeze that whips Richie's hair into disarray and cools the sweat on his skin. It's pleasant but deceiving, already the skin on his cheeks and nose is burnt red. The promenade and the beach beside them is crowded, tourists and locals alike have flocked to the sea to escape the heat of the city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I told you I don't really date," Eddie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face is shining with sweat and oily sunscreen, his cheeks pink underneath. Every day they spend in the sun his freckles become more prominent and his tan deepens. While Richie burns, Eddie tans and it suits him so well. He looks healthy, so unlike the sickly pale version of himself Richie remembers from the hospital in Derry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs and licks along the edge of the cone to catch the blue drip of his ice cream melting in the sun. "You also told me you were straight so I thought maybe it was a clever lie." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gripped by some hopeful little urge, he looks over at Eddie and finds him looking right back. Something possesses him to maintain eye contact as he licks along the side of his thumb where it's sticky with ice cream and sure enough, Eddie's tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and he blinks slowly, like a chameleon, lifts his own cone and licks along the rim of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie knows how to make it clear he is interested in a guy without saying anything at all. It's part of survival as a closeted man in Hollywood, the very essence of the casual dating experience in that world. Suggestive body language, covert glances, saying one thing but meaning another — he has not been shy about it in a long time, spurred on by the desire for intimacy. He knows what to look out for in others the same way he knows how to say those things back, decades of learning their language.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows that suggestively tonguing the rim of an ice cream cone while looking someone directly in the eye is the loudest message you could possibly send. It's not even covert, not subtle, it's the kind of thing that gets you in trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I never told you I was straight," Eddie says, much too late to count as an answer, and he averts his eyes. "You made assumptions. That's not my fault."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie rolls back his shoulders to ease the tightness there and tries to remember what they were even talking about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah," he says dumbly, his thoughts syrup-thick. "Again, you were married to a woman for over a decade."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I broke up with her from a hospital bed hundreds of miles away. You could have inferred from that it wasn't a marriage of love."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can have an unhappy marriage and still be straight," Richie insists. "Look at Bev!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yep, but I'm gay." Eddie shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I didn't fucking know that!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are we even arguing about?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow hearing Eddie say it so casually for the second time in less than 24 hours punches the air out of Richie's lungs despite the fact that he has thought about very little else since their conversation last night. His brain latched onto it and is now circling it like vultures above dead meat, screeching and sharpening their claws to dig in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankly he wants to talk about nothing else but the fact that Eddie is gay. That morning over breakfast on their patio overlooking the ocean he bit his tongue, sipping coffee to keep himself from asking question after question. The rest of the day has not been much better. While walking into the city, while looking at contemporary art he didn't really get, in the various boutiques Eddie dragged him into, all the time words burned in the back of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How long has he known? Did he have any of the same experiences Richie did in college? Was he ashamed then? Is he ashamed now? What's his type? Why doesn't he date? Is it because he doesn't want to or is it because he's scared?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a broken record stuck on the same beat, over and over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're not arguing," he says. "Well, I'm not. Are you arguing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie takes a crunching bite of his ice cream cone. "I think we're always arguing a little bit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's like that love language thing," Richie tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's five love languages or whatever. It's a book from the 90s. We've invented a sixth love language and it's ‘having petty arguments’."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs openly and Richie wants to put his arm around him like he sometimes does as a joke while wishing so badly for it to be real. He wants to hold his hand, sticky from ice cream, and he feels like a fucking teenager for it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie is floating on his back, above him the night sky veiled by sheer slithers of clouds. They’re in Hyères, in the Mediterranean sea, at some time close to midnight. The water is cool around him, lapping at his cheeks, his chest, his knuckles and his toes while the rest of him is fully submerged. It feels like he imagines being in a sensory deprivation chamber would, except a little wetter. Everything around him is muffled and still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is floating somewhere nearby and that knowledge makes him feel a little giddy. He should be used to being near him after two months of it but somehow it still makes him feel tender inside to know that he gets to share this with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately for him and everyone around him Richie has a hard time staying still and so he barely makes it five minutes before breaking the peaceful moment by turning onto his chest and paddling over to Eddie. With a wolfish grin he grabs his ankle and Eddie screams in horror, his arms flailing wildly and splashing water everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" Eddie yells and turns so he can hit Richie with wet hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aw, Eds, did you think it was a shark? Did you think a shark was biting your foot off?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wish I'd never met you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughs loudly and says, "You don't mean that!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are barely any people around for them to disturb. The only others on this stretch of beach are a gang of teenagers drinking by a bonfire further down towards the harbour and an old man swimming in slow circles a good distance away from them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I really do." Eddie paddles away from him, looking like a grumpy, wet dog. His hair is plastered to his forehead in all its un-styled beauty, the copious amounts of gel that had been in it already washed out by the sea, and a droplet of water runs down his nose. Richie watches as his tongue darts out to catch it when it drips onto his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a fit of despair he breathes in deep, chest ballooning outwards, and ducks underneath the surface. He stays down there for as long as he can humanly manage. The water is murky around him and the salt of it stings his eyes but he blinks against it. He can see the blurry outline of Eddie's legs moving to keep him above water, the shadow of his blue swimming trunks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He comes up with a gasp and his glasses slide down his face, dragged downwards by the pressure. Blindly, he reaches for them but his fingers glide through the water and meet no resistance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, fuck," he says, splashing as he feels around for them. He cannot lose his fucking glasses in the Mediterranean sea when his spare pair is on his bedside table in Los Angeles. He's blind as a fucking bat and there's no way he can get his specific prescription replaced out here in a hurry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Eddie, in all his blurry glory, dives into the water in front of him and after a few seconds of bubbling he comes back up and slides Richie's glasses on his face. Everything comes into focus, first Eddie's frowning face, then the soft, glinting waves of the ocean, the shadow of an island in the far distance behind him, the stark line of the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're paddling in the water just inches away from each other. When Eddie moves, Richie sways with him. It would be so easy to touch him, to reach out and wrap his pruney fingers around Eddie's freckled biceps. He wants to pull him close, wants to feel the warmth of his bare chest against his own, the gnarled scar tissue, wants to feel his stubble on his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie has spent his whole life wanting things — it's familiar in a way few things are. He thinks that one day wanting might not be enough anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks, man," he says, his brain lagging a few feet behind him. He clears his throat. "A real ally to the gays."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about half the time," Eddie says and paddles backwards, putting some space between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie exhales loudly. He gives Eddie a shaky smile, turns over onto his back and floats once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You'll float, too. You'll float, too. You'll float, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck off, clown," he whispers to the stars. He closes his eyes and just breathes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can hear is the soft rush of the sea.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere between Marseilles and Martigues, after an ill-advised second coffee break that will come back to haunt him in about half an hour when he'll need to pee again, Richie puts his arm on the backrest of the passenger seat and says, “So this is like our gay awakening road trip, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks up from his kindle and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Awakening? What the hell are we awakening? We’ve both known for years."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie blinks. “You have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve known for years?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shrugs. "Sort of," he says. And he then says </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing else.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sort of," Richie repeats doubtfully. "Sort of? How can you sort of know?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just sort of knew!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Explain, Edward!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's like... I knew but I didn't acknowledge it. It was just one of those things I rationalised away until I couldn't anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie tries to put himself in his shoes, then. The concept is alien to him simply because there was never any way he could have rationalised it away himself. He can't remember a time when he didn't know this inescapable truth: Richie Tozier likes boys. It's a fact like any other. Sure as the sun rises in the east, sure as the earth turns on its axis, Richie Tozier wants to touch the skin of other men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he tried to sleep with Susie Cooper in college it was never because he thought it would make him like boys any less, he just thought maybe he could also like girls. Maybe he could hide underneath that and keep part of himself tucked away, a believable cover story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn't take him long to figure out that it wasn't going to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So what changed?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie is silent for a moment, his eyebrows drawn into a complicated line. Like he is weighing his options.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I nearly died," he finally says. "In a sewer. Took a clown spider leg to the chest, remember? You were there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie huffs a laugh but it sounds bitter even to his own ears. "Don't think I'll ever forget," he says darkly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cheer up, Rich." Eddie pokes him in the side. "No more survivor's guilt. We’re over that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we?” He fiddles with the A/C, turning the temperature down further as the sun beating down on the roof of the car starts to get a bit much, and he thinks about the blood dripping from Eddie’s mouth above him. He leans back in his seat and clutches the steering wheel like it’s going to dissolve otherwise. “I don’t know if I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, get over it," Eddie says glibly. "Or are you going to wait until you can level the playing field by nearly dying while saving me from the deadlights?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If any of us ever get stuck in the deadlights again, we'll know that something has gone horribly wrong." Richie laughs, a dry sound. "And it's not a life debt, Eds. I don't owe you shit."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But he does</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks idly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then I don't understand what your problem is."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sighs. He wipes sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment he says nothing at all and out of the corner of his eyes he sees Eddie turn back to his kindle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've been looking into therapists," he finally says. Eddie looks up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yup."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stares ahead at the long stretch of the road. The GPS announces a traffic jam coming up for them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cool," says Eddie. He doesn't dig any deeper, even though he must want to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie turns up the volume of the music. On the car speakers Don Henley croons about the boys of summer. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You got your hair combed back and your</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sunglasses on, baby</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can tell you, my love for you will still be strong</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After the boys of summer have gone</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie leaves Eddie to do the dishes one evening in Barcelona although he would usually offer to help. He leaves him there with the sleeves of his hoodie rolled up, standing at the sink and swaying his hips to the sound of John Coltrane’s saxophone, looking for all intents and purposes like the man of Richie’s domestic dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He allows himself a twenty minute walk to collect his thoughts. It quickly turns into thirty, then forty and suddenly it’s 10pm, the sun has set on him and his phone is burning a hole into his pocket, an unwelcome reminder. The streets of suburban Barcelona are quiet around him, disturbed only by distant sounds of electronic music coming from several blocks away. He has no concept of how far he is from their apartment complex and thinks that he might be a little bit lost but there’s a reason he carries a seven hundred dollar GPS on his person at all times so he’s not too worried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paces the same short stretch of road five times in each direction before he finally gets his phone out to call his sister. Her contact picture is one of them as children, sepia-tinged and buck-toothed, grinning into the camera in front of the lake by their bubbe’s house, the last time that they spent the summer before she died — in a car crash no less, not of any sort of old age. Richie often thinks that nothing else but a two tonne hunk of metal hurtling down the country road could have killed her so it makes sense that that’s how she went, an intervention from the universe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris picks up after the third ring, a sharp rustling in the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ricket!" she yells in lieu of a hello.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie holds his phone away from his ear with a grimace. "Cricket," he says lightly. "The one and only."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inexplicably, his sister is even louder than he is. While Richie got the sheer volume of his personality from watching too many cartoons and trying to get his dad's attention, Chris inherited hers from their mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's only been a whole fucking six months since you last called," she says, sounding only a little bitter about it. "Do you need me to post your bail? Did someone die? We have no parents left so I assume it's no one I care about."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not in jail, I'm in Europe." He squeezes his phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can hoist himself up onto a low wall outside of a dental clinic's parking lot, judging by the clip art sign of a tooth hanging above him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not sure if there's a difference," says Chris.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, you xenophobe. Just because you haven't left the state of Texas in two years doesn't mean we all have to suffer our lives away in some shit hole."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you just call to tell me off for being too 'small town' again?" Chris asks, voice clipped. "Because — believe it or not — I actually have shit to do. Like raising your estranged nephew. Doing the laundry. Going to NA meetings. Literally anything else but this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie swallows down the burning guilt rising up in his throat. "We're not estranged," he says, his voice small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No? Could have fooled me." There's a loud clang in the background, like a gate falling shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of trying to grovel at her feet like he probably should, he asks, "What are you up to?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Breaking into an abandoned police station."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie can never quite tell if she's joking when she says shit like that. He swings his legs, heels hitting the brick wall again and again, not enough to hurt but enough to remind him of a solid universe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sounds safe. Good luck," he says. "Listen, I did actually call for a reason."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it that you're gay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks. "Huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smacks her lips, a disapproving sound that he could probably hear from outer space. "You're gay, right? Leon follows you on Instagram."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuck? Why does Leon follow me on Instagram?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, he thinks that you're the coolest motherfucker on the planet," she says. "He told me you have a boyfriend, Richie, I looked at the photos. Isn't he that kid from home with the insane mom? The one who was in a coma last year?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's throat is dry as he swallows. "I'm not dating Eddie."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs at him, her familiar smoker's laugh, and he nervously rubs his palm along the denim seam at the outside of his thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then why does he look at you like that?" she asks. "In the photos."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks up at the sky, cloudy as it hangs above him, and constant like nothing else in his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How does he look at me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Like you hung the fucking moon, dumbass. Like he wants to jump your bones." Her voice sounds metallic and far away and for a moment all he can hear is the loud rustling of plastic. "You're on speakerphone now so don't say anything inappropriate."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiles faintly. "I thought you were breaking into a police station?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That was code for 'carrying groceries from the car to the house while my teenage son watches from the window and does nothing'."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the background he can hear Leon's muffled, "I was busy!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, Leon," Richie says, feeling out of his depth. He has lost any semblance of control over the conversation, if he ever had any to begin with. "How's it going, champ?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chris smacks her lips again with palpable disapproval. "Champ? What is he, eight?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, Uncle Richie!" Leon says loudly over her. "I'm fine, thank you! Congrats on being gay!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie holds his phone away from his ear and breaks into hysterical giggles. He can vaguely hear Chris and Leon's muffled conversation over the sound of his own laughter but not enough to make out any words, and by the time he comes back to the call they're talking about the oven-baked chalupas they're having for dinner later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks, Leon," he says, interrupting Chris talking about salsa. "Text me your Instagram name so I can follow you back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know if you'd get my content," Leon says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's a Vine celebrity, you know," Chris tells him. "You're too old to understand that sort of thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mom, Vine is dead," Leon says with a level of exasperation only sixteen year olds can achieve. "There are no Vine celebrities anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grins. He hops off the wall and starts heading towards the vague direction of the apartment. He wonders absently if Eddie is in bed yet or if he'll find him curled up on the sofa when he gets back, cradling a glass of wine or a cup of tea. His stomach does an embarrassing flip at the thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm actually very up to date with the trends," Richie tells the both of them. "I know Vine! My publicist tried to get me on it a few years ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank fuck that didn't work out," says Chris. "That would have been what the kids call an epic fail."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mom, no one says that. It's 2017," says Leon, exasperation taken up another notch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to picture them, then, sitting around the kitchen table. He remembers that the cupboards are painted yellow, chipped and old as they are, and the window overlooks the quiet street outside. It's been a long time since he visited them — six, maybe seven years — and it was only because his tour took him there but he can still recall now the wonky, smiling sun painted on the window with gel paints, the overgrown ponytail palm by the microwave. For all he knows the sun might be gone now, the palm long since replaced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pictures Leon, fuzzy facial hair and glasses, his skin brown and his hair curling upwards. On paper he looks nothing like Chris and everything like his dad, but Richie knows they have the same eyes, the same front tooth gap, the same knobby knees. He even got her moles and her terrible eyesight, a genetic staple of the Tozier family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes a deep breath and asks, "Do you guys want to come to LA for Rosh Hashanah this year?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes!" Leon yells loudly, so explosive Richie has to hold the phone away from his ear. "We're going to Hollywood!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't actually live in Hollywood," Richie says with a grin and sidesteps a pile of bin bags outside a bar. "Atwater Village is nice, though."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, I'm taking you off speaker phone," says Chris. "Shoo, Leo. Don't you have homework or something?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leon grumbles something unintelligible in the background and now Chris' voice is closer, less metallic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let me guess," Richie starts. "'I can't take Leon out of school for that, we don't even practice, it's so soon, flights are too expensive.'"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pretty much," Chris replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sounds annoyed but not enough for him to worry. Richie knows that he has been useless as a brother and as an uncle for the past decade or so but he also knows that they exist within a mutual understanding that the basis of their relationship is love, through all the bitterness and guilt, through every tearful fight and through months and months of radio silence. It has always been love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll pay for the flights, you know I will," he says. "And I know you'll let me. I'm not expecting anyone to go to the synagogue and reflect on their year, you don't have to light any candles, we don't have to cast our sins into the river. We'll just eat some sweet shit, I'll get us some challah and show you my turf."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Leon has school, Richie." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie scrubs a hand over his face and tries to think his way out of it. Of course Leon has school— he's sixteen and he's not a child anymore so there's more for him to miss if he takes a week off, tests and homework he needs to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," he says, defeated. "Maybe Hanukkah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a moment of silence on the other line during which he wonders if she is just going to hang up on him. He's done it to her plenty of times before and she isn't above it either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"When is it?" she finally asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What, Hanukkah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," she says. "Rosh Hashanah. When is it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, curveball</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. Out loud he says, "Late September at some point. 20th to the 22nd?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay." There's faint rustling, the sound of pen scratching on paper. "Okay," she repeats. "We'll make it work. Plenty of other kids in his class will have it off, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Richie breathes out something like happiness flutters within his chest. "Pick your flights and send me the details, I'll transfer you the money. I have mobile banking now because I’m a 21st century man."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure, okay. Leon is going to lose his mind," Chris says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she asks, "So are we going to see Eddie while we're there?" and Richie hangs up on her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With the knowledge of their visit safely tucked inside of his chest he feels lighter than he has in a long time. Eddie is asleep by the time he gets back so Richie tells him about it the next morning, bouncy like an excited child, and Eddie indulges him with an unfamiliar patience, saying things like </span>
  <em>
    <span>I bet they'll love LA</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>do you think you'll get the Uncle of the Year award for this? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't tell him about the assumptions both Chris and Leon have made about them, or the pointed questions. He doesn’t need to know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his sister's words in mind he scrolls through his Instagram feed and tries to look at the pictures of Eddie from a stranger's perspective — he sees the soft shape of his mouth, the annoyed slant of his brows, sees how somehow his eyes are drawn not to the camera but to what's behind it, and what's behind it is Richie. He doesn't know how to define it, if it's familiar fondness or something else, but if he really looks he can see what Chris meant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confused but perhaps not surprised he holds that in the palm of his hand — his phone and Eddie, the knowledge of something transformed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie starts writing in earnest on their third day in Barcelona.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up in a cold sweat at 5:38am and realises with a gasping, wet-lipped anxiety that there are only twenty days until their overnight flight from Paris to New York, twenty days for him to come up with some semblance of a plan for his life beyond this when all he has currently is six pages of disjointed half-jokes and things he should probably talk to a mental health professional about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to shake it and go back to sleep he pulls on a shirt and traipses through the twilight blue apartment, careful not to disturb Eddie. The balcony is small but fits a tiny, round table and two rickety chairs, as well as some dying potted plants zip-tied to the railing. He pours half of the glass of water he got on the way onto the dried out soil, knowing full well that it is likely futile —he has never been good at letting go of dying things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that is what saved Eddie, in the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his notebook on a blank page, puts in his shitty earbuds and shuffles his writing playlist which is mostly just movie soundtracks and some newly-added jazz which he has Eddie to thank for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some time around half past six the first, tentative rays of sunlight break through the cover of night, in between two buildings across the street. By 7am the whole world is bathed in orange and he has to go inside to put a cap on to shield his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie finds him an hour later. He stands on the threshold of the glass door, bleary-eyed and barefoot, holding a mug of coffee in each hand. He is wearing his silky pyjama shirt, unbuttoned halfway, and nothing but boxer shorts below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Morning," Richie says and swallows around nothing. He feels hot all over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Morning," Eddie says and sets down one of the mugs on the small table next to Richie's notebook. "You look rough. Did you not sleep?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aw, gee, Eds. So nice of you to point out I'm ugly." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie picks up the cup and takes a tentative sip. It's perfect, the exact amount of sugar he likes in it (one and a half teaspoons, the first one heaped) and a dash of milk. Even the temperature is pleasant, like Eddie had made it and then waited the specific amount of time it took for it to cool down to hot-but-nice-to-drink. He imagines him handling the French press with the care he seems to only reserve for coffee and first-aid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiles behind his mug, feeling inexplicably shy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can I sit?" Eddie asks, still standing awkwardly near the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, yeah." Richie quickly makes space on the table, closing his notebook and setting it down on the floor by his socked feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sits down with a tired smile. He's soft in the mornings the same way he is at night but never in the day, the tiredness mellowing him out and taking away a few layers of anxious energy. Richie loves him like that, loves him at any time of day but particularly when his hair is in disarray and his cheek still wrinkled and red from sleeping on his side. It feels intimate, feels like a gift to see a side of him so few people get to see. By the time Eddie steps out of his apartment he is put together and strung tightly like a bow, his tongue razor-sharp and his hair slicked back with gel, but Richie gets to know him like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You writing?" Eddie asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks away, his face warm. He was definitely staring for a little too long but Eddie let him, didn't he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Trying to," he says. "But genius takes time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you're waiting for genius it's going to be a long day." Eddie takes a sip of his coffee, black and no sugar, befitting a jaded old man like him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You’re so catty," Richie complains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie just grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit together for the better part of an hour, planning their day and their drive to Valencia tomorrow. Eddie insists that stopping to check out the monastery of Santa Creus on the way will be worth it while Richie argues that it's just going to be a waste of time.</span>
  <em>
    <span> But it has great reviews, Richie.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, written people who have never had fun in their lives, Eddie.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The plan is as follows: After Valencia, they will drive to Madrid and spend a few days melting in the August sun while pretending to absorb information about the history of the city. Then they will drive back up to France where they will stay in a secluded beach house near Bayonne that Mike had booked. Eddie isn't too keen on that because the proximity to the water means mosquitos and they seem to like him a ridiculous amount, but Richie is excited about the prospect of as many midnight swims as they could want. After that, Bordeaux and a day trip to the giant sand dune in Arcachon which he thinks sounds cool as hell but is probably boring in person. Finally, they will drive to Paris and spend their last week there and hopefully Richie won't drop on his knees in front of Eddie by the Seine and propose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The email confirming their departure on the 24th of August sits in his inbox and burns a hole in his hand whenever he holds his phone. Already, he feels the phantom pain of missing Eddie, even as he sits across from him here in the morning sun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The city is too hot by the time the sun stands high in the sky, not a cloud in sight to give them cover, so they change their vague plans of sightseeing and go to the beach instead. A train takes them directly from Barcelona-Sants to Ocata Beach in El Masnou which the internet promises them is a 'hidden gem'. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie prepares for the beach like everybody's mom, packing anything they could possibly need and then some, from sandwiches to insect repellant and a first aid kit so they roll up to the beach carrying a backpack each plus a huge shopping bag full of crap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not satisfied with the layer of sunscreen they applied before they left the house, Eddie makes it barely ten minutes of sitting in the sun before insisting that they need to reapply, snapping at him about skin cancer and cell deterioration like WebMD personified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's 50 SPF, Eds," Richie tells him as he reluctantly unbuttons his shirt to reveal his pasty, hairy business to the world. "I'm sure we don't need to reapply more than every three hours."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Three hours?!" Eddie sits forward and pushes Richie's shirt off of his shoulders impatiently, his palm brushing his bicep as he does. "Three hours, are you insane? At least every hour, more often if you're swimming. Do you want me to get cancer and die?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squirts sunscreen into his palm and shuffles to kneel behind Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, honey," Richie says, voice glib. His face is flushed from the fact that Eddie practically undressed him just then but the good thing about it being 90 degrees is that he can blame it on the heat with no questions asked. "We're dying of old age and that's it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ugh, I hate that you're still going to be annoying me during bingo night in forty years time," Eddie grumbles. He slaps his palms on Richie's back and the sunscreen makes a squelching sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, you don't," says Richie. "You'd be miserable without my old people antics."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Keep telling yourself that, bro." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's hands are gentle where they glide across the expanse of his back, and Richie allows himself to close his eyes. He takes his time, moving in smooth, concentric circles from his nape down across his shoulder blades, thumbs digging into knots of muscle as though he is giving him a massage instead of making sure he doesn't get skin cancer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie drops his head down and groans quietly at the firm pressure. His posture is terrible — has been since the year he shot up to 5'11 with no warning, then another three inches the next and he started permanently slouching because he wasn't sure what to do with all that body — and he definitely feels the consequences of it now, particularly after spending the early morning hours hunched over his notebook in a chair too small to hold him. And now Eddie is working away some of that tightness under the pretense of rubbing sunscreen onto his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his shoulders backwards. Eddie hums and digs warm thumbs into a spot to the left of his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You should stretch more," Eddie murmurs, so quiet that Richie can barely hear him over the sound of the ocean and children screaming. The beach is quieter than most but there are enough families around that the soundscape is still a little hellish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mhm," Richie hums. "Are you going to convert me to yoga?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think you and yoga would clash." Eddie kneads a spot of tension just above the band of his swimming trunks with the ball of his hand and Richie lets out a shuddery breath. "You're too jittery."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Isn't that the point?" Richie pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his forehead on his knee. "I'd hope it would make me less jittery."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie runs his finger tips down the length of Richie's spine and they both know there's no excuse for that, there's no health benefit to it. Goosebumps sweep across Richie’s arms. He considers the possibility that Eddie just wants to touch him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You might be a lost cause," Eddie tells him finally, his voice an unusually low pitch. His palms are flat against Richie's back, once again moving in delicate circles. He must know that there's only so long he can pretend to apply sunscreen. Richie certainly does — it's difficult to think of anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's not a very nice thing to say." He bites down on his lower lip, unsure of what they're even talking about. Something about yoga, maybe. Something about Richie's inherent inability to sit still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he's sitting still now, isn't he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not very nice," says Eddie. His hands stop moving and come to rest on Richie's shoulders, fingers curling slightly to press into the soft flesh of his traps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie opens his eyes but keeps his head bowed. He watches a fly skitter across the warm orange of his beach towel and takes a few deep breaths. Everything is warm and bright, even the shadowed cave he's built with his limbs is sun-touched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think you're very nice, Eds," he laughs. "Just a real sweetheart."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm, sweetheart," Eddie says softly, closer than anticipated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie feels the ghost of his exhale warm on the back of his neck and for a moment he thinks that Eddie might kiss him there but then his hands are gone, leaving only tingly prints in their wake. He blinks and lifts his head, disoriented.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie appears next to him and hands him the tube of sunscreen. "Do the rest of your body and then me," he says, bossy as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, champ,” Richie says and cringes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Champ? You're going to fucking call him champ after he just gave you a sensual back rub, bitch? Could you have any less game?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not sure who that is but it sounds a bit like Chris.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After making quick work of his arms and legs, leaving an ugly white cast on his already pale skin, Richie kneels in front of Eddie and dots some sunscreen along his cheeks and nose. He marvels at the fact that Eddie lets him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You look stupid," Richie tells him. What he means is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>You look adorable.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's eyebrows are drawn together into an angry frown, his forehead wrinkled, and yet he sits still while Richie spreads the sunscreen across his face. He stops briefly to run the tip of his finger along the white scar tissue on his cheek, just above his dimple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cheer up," says Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie moves on from the scar to rub sunscreen into Eddie's hairline. He says, "I'm very cheerful."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You don't look it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is just my face, man." He drops his hand and passes the sunscreen back to Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No Derry-guilt allowed," Eddie tells him firmly. "This is a Derry-guilt free zone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shuffles back over onto his own beach towel and digs through their mountain of random shit Eddie insisted they would need, looking for a water bottle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," he says. "Let's get your ass into the ocean, Kaspbrak."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tosses one bottle to Eddie and unscrews the cap of his own to take a huge gulp. It's hot and he has been sweating buckets since they left their blissfully cool apartment, so even the lukewarm tap water is a relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We have to wait half an hour for the sunscreen to sink in," Eddie tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie just groans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Days later he is sitting on the patio of their fancy seaside house in Valencia, another one of Eddie's choices because apparently the world's most boring job pays too well and he didn’t know about European mosquitos back then. It's early and the sun has only just risen above the horizon. His night was mostly sleepless and he has been up for hours, finding that somehow exhaustion is the breeding ground for his best material. He has always been a late-night writer and this shift to early morning doesn't come as much of a surprise now that he exists in a different time zone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His notebook is lying face down on the table in front of him and his phone is wedged between his shoulder and cheek. On the other line, Bev is baked and complaining about how good her boyfriend is in bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"— and he does this thing where he picks me up and grabs my ass and puts me on like, the kitchen counter or whatever. What the fuck is that about? He has no right to be that hot. It makes me feel like I'm going to pass out because no blood is reaching my brain."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm," Richie hums and takes a drag of his cigarette. "Where's the blood going?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"To my pussy, Richard," Bev says. "Duh."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs. "Like a boner?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know the biology, I just know that's where it goes. Straight to my pussy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not sure if Ben wants me to know this much about his sex life," Richie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev makes a dismissive sound. "I'm telling you about my sex life, not Ben's."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But you're having sex with him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, so?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins and slides down a little in his seat, his feet stretched out in front of him. He's wearing socks underneath his flip-flops, and he tries to imagine what Eddie would have to say about that. Nothing good, that's for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Never mind," he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Speaking of sex life, how are you and Eddie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stoned Bev is always bizarrely abrupt. Where stoned Richie rambles on and on, losing his train of thought and picking it up again and losing it and picking it up, meandering like he's lost in himself, Bev just commits to every single thought she has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like this one, unfortunately for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He asks, "Speaking of sex life?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah. Are you guys not having sex yet?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sober up, Marsh," he says. "Of course we're not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, weird."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We did make eye contact for a solid minute yesterday over dinner. Does that count?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev laughs. "I need more context to make a judgement."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I made apricot chicken and rice, Eddie was a little wine-drunk, we were listening to Tracy Chapman," he tells her. "Our feet kept bumping underneath the table."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Which song?" she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Baby Can I Hold You</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Richie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, that counts," Bev decides. "There's no world in which that doesn't count."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes one final drag of his cigarette and then stubs it out in his makeshift ashtray which was just a small side plate he took from the kitchen. "Great," he says. "Then yes, we've had sex."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good for you, honey."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, actually. Bad for me." He gets up from the bench and wanders down to the edge of the garden where it slopes into a terracotta-tiled path that leads to the small stretch of private beach, tucked away inside the bay. His flip-flops slap against his heels as he walks, the only sound in the still morning other than the gentle rush of the ocean and Bev on the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She asks, "What's bad about lovingly gazing into each other's eyes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie toes off his flip-flops and socks when he gets to the end of the path, then steps into the sand. It's still cool from the night. He digs his toes in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Everything," he says to Bev. "I've made it this far but I feel like the home stretch is going to kill me. I'm not sure I can take another three weeks of this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev is silent for a minute, either collecting her thoughts or lighting her spliff. Perhaps both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she says, "Rich, why don't you just go for it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks out across the bay. To his right, the cliffs sprawl out over the ocean and cast stark shadows on the water. The sun climbs steadily upwards behind the trees scattered along the top like weeds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't," he mutters. "I only just got him back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why would you lose him?" Bev makes a disapproving sound. "He's not going to run screaming if you tell him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a way, she's right. Eddie doesn't run from anything — not anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes his way towards the water where the sand is wet and his feet leave deep, clear prints as he walks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sometimes I think he feels the same," he tells Bev and the cold water laps at his feet. "Like when he just... touches me. For no reason! What is up with that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who says he doesn't feel the same?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know, basic rational thought?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs into the receiver and then he hears her inhale, the kind of deep toke that would have lesser men coughing their lungs up. But not Beverly Marsh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He misses her terribly, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Richie," she starts, voice firm. "I'm going to say this one more time so you better listen up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aye, Cap'n."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That man is obsessed with you. He took one look at you in Derry, nearly died for you, woke up from a coma with you by his bedside and went home to divorce his wife immediately. And then he tried to call you every day for months and only stopped because you were being a fucking asshole." Another deep breath followed a loud exhale. "I think the only thing stopping this from happening is you. What are you so afraid of?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He left his wife because he’s gay and saw the light at the end of the tunnel or whatever, not because he’s in love with me," Richie protests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, so he finally told you he's gay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows. "Uh, yeah. Shit, did I not say? I mean, of course I didn't tell you. Not my secret to tell! Fuck."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You literally just told me," Bev says, amused. "But it's fine, I knew."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds pathetic even to his own ears when he squeaks, "How?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He told me," she replies. "When we were fifteen. He was seven beers in so he probably doesn't remember."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." Richie considers simply throwing himself face-first into the ocean and staying down. "Alright."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not saying more than that. You can figure the rest out yourself." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sighs. “Can you just go back to telling me about how well Ben fucks?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, absolutely,” says Bev and complies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In Madrid they finally come across one of those AirBnB scam apartments that the internet has promised. What they booked is a three bedroom duplex apartment with an open plan living room and kitchen, a large balcony and two bathrooms. When they arrive at the address and let themselves in with the keys from the safety box they step into a dingy apartment with peeling wallpaper, a narrow hallway that opens onto a tiny living room and the single, adjunct bedroom. The bed is queen-sized and the couch in the living area is not even big enough for Eddie ‘5’9 is the national average’ Kaspbrak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie has a minor breakdown about it. He stomps around the place dramatically and phones all sorts of numbers to try and get in touch with whoever is responsible, eventually getting through to someone from AirBnB who says they can't do anything but look into it and file a complaint for him so that is that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck this," Eddie says and flops down on the small couch. The place is relatively clean but everywhere they look there's something broken, chipped or plain ugly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm surprised this is the first time for us," Richie says, poking through the cupboards in the corner to see if there's anything interesting in them. "The internet makes it sound like every second AirBnB listing is a scam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm going to make sure we get out money back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, they have Uno!" Richie whoops and holds up the red pack of cards triumphantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Great," Eddie says dryly. "It's a shit hole and there's only one bed but at least we have Uno."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, right. There's only one bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie swallows dryly. They've shared beds a few times over the past month now, ever since he snuck into Eddie's room at night to wake him from his nightmare so it shouldn't feel like a big deal. But it's different in the late hours. It's safer, then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, they will brush their teeth together and he will watch Eddie get changed into his pyjamas. They will lie down next to each other under the same duvet and as they get comfortable their legs might tangle together, a quiet intimacy. Would Eddie roll over and sleep with his back to him? Or would they lie facing each other, curled around the space between them like question marks?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sits back on his heels and stares at the deck of cards in his hands. His heart thumps in his chest so loudly that he thinks Eddie must be able to hear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"At least we have Uno," he repeats dumbly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The springs of the old couch creak when Eddie gets up. Richie watches out of the corner of his eyes as he crosses the room and crouches down next to him. One of his hands comes to rest on Richie's shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your joints aren't meant to crack every time you move, you know?" Eddie says. He plucks the Uno cards out of Richie's limp grasp. "You should do yoga tonight. I'll do it with you, off the mat."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie knows it's meant to be a dig but all he can think about is that that actually sounds really nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," he says. "But Uno first. You'll need to unwind after I wipe the floor with you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs and he squeezes Richie's shoulder. His thumb rubs circles into the fabric of his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In your dreams, Tozier."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dude, my dreams are more ambitious than that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? Like what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie turns his head to look at Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is closer than he thought, their faces only inches apart. For a moment he considers bridging the gap between them just to see what would happen, the idea taking hold of him like a vice. In another world he does; there he presses his lips to Eddie's like a question, and perhaps in that world Eddie slides his hand into Richie's hair and curls his fingers like an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here, he flicks Eddie's forehead and puts some distance between them. Says, "Like going down on your mom," and grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie gets to his feet and nudges him with his foot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Those jokes work even less now that I know you're gay," he says. "Get some new material, asshole. It's been thirty years."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If it ain't broke, don't fix it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Something's definitely broken, alright," Eddie grumbles. "Might just be your brain."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not your best work," Richie tells him after considering that for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, whatever. Not everything can be a top of the charts insult." Eddie holds his hand out. "C'mon, old man. Let's see if the rest of Madrid is as much of a shit hole as this apartment."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes it, his fingers curling around Eddie's thumb, and their palms are warm where they meet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, Madrid isn't a shit hole. They spend the afternoon exploring their neighbourhood — say what you will about their AirBnB but at least it's in a great location, slap bang in the middle of Chueca, just a few blocks from Calle Hortaleza — and drink copious amounts of coffee. It's enough to distract Eddie from his 'can I speak to the manager' fury about being scammed and the tension in his shoulders slowly bleeds away over the course of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they sit down for dinner in the sprawling outdoor seating area of a bustling restaurant Eddie is loose-limbed and smiling. He laughs at even Richie's worst jokes, lets him steal potatoes from his plate without so much as a frown, and answers his stupid questions with little resistance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"First celebrity crush?" Richie asks while scraping the last of the allioli out of the bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tom Selleck," Eddie responds, barely missing a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie chokes on his potato. "Tom fucking Selleck," he says once he has stopped coughing. "With the Hawaiian shirts and all? The chest hair? The moustache?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, dude, Tom Selleck was fucking sexy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Was? He still is, Eds."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie grins. "I don't know about that but I definitely carried that one with me for a while."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? Were you still rubbing one out to Tommy every night in college?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Something like that," he says, looking a little bashful. His cheeks are tinged with red, much to Richie's delight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think you mean exactly that. Aw, how cute! You were so loyal to him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie throws his balled up napkin at him. "What about you?" he asks. "And don't you dare say my mom. I'll beat you to death."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie takes a sip of his coke and then he says, "James Dean."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Eddie stares at him with narrowed eyes. "No, it wasn't. What's the real answer?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh." Richie fidgets in his seat. And then, very quietly, he says, "Steven Spielberg."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was Steven Spielberg," he repeats, louder this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stares at him for a long, agonising moment and then he throws his head back and laughs so loudly that several people look over at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Richie grumbles. "As if Tom Selleck is any better."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Eddie another minute to stop giggling long enough to say, "Tom Selleck is so much fucking better. Ask anyone!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whatever." Richie tries to look angry. It doesn't feel very successful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Was it the romantic photoshoot he did with the E.T. puppet that did it for you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He has nice hair," Richie says defensively. "And he always seemed really cool in interviews."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure." Eddie nods, still grinning. His dimples are deep gashes in his cheek. "I remember you always made us watch the bonus content on your Raiders of the Lost Ark VHS. I thought it was because of Harrison Ford, I didn't suspect Spielberg. I underestimated the sex appeal of his luscious curls."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stop, stop! I'm already dead," Richie cries and buries his face in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nope," Eddie laughs and finishes the last scraps of his paella. "I'm going to hold on to this one forever. You should have stuck with James Dean."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I tried but you wouldn't let me!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would've if you were a better liar," Eddie tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie peeks through his fingers. "I'm a great liar."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Absolutely fucking not," Eddie shakes his head. "You always do this thing where you touch the right side of your face, above the eyebrow. Sometimes you go a little red."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Huh," says Richie. "I didn't know you're paying attention."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat. Then Eddie furrows his brows and the lines around his eyes deepen. He says, "Of course I am."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a gentleness within that. Richie feels faint, exposed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." He dabs at his mouth with his napkin self-consciously. "Hah. Okay."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders what else Eddie has been paying attention to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After humiliating Richie in a game of Uno, Eddie holds him to the whole yoga thing. Richie was hoping that they could postpone it because his dinner sits like a large rock inside his stomach. He's certain that he has put on five pounds of potato-weight alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits on the yoga mat like a sack of flour, cross-legged and crumpled in the middle. Eddie pokes him in the lower back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sit up straight, dude," he says. "Think of your danda."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My what now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The line of your spine, from the tailbone the crown of your head."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My spine doesn't go to the crown of my head," Richie says, just to be difficult.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, dipshit," Eddie huffs. He shuffles to kneel behind Richie on the mat. "Your neck and head are extensions of the spine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He traces a line with his fingers from the small of Richie's back all the way to the crown of his head, following the length of his spine as he goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shudders at the touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The sacrum is your centre of gravity," Eddie continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My sac?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut the fuck up. Your sacrum is—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know basic anatomy, dude," Richie says lightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighs. "Then stop acting like a dumbass. I'm trying to help you find inner peace here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, like you've found inner peace? I'm not convinced."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie tries to sit up straight, to find length in his spine, imagining a string attached to his crown and holding him up. His back aches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't have the core strength for this," he tells Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What, for sitting up straight?" Eddie snorts. "It's worse than I thought."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey now!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're an all star," Eddie mutters like he can't help it and Richie collapses in on himself with laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fucking Shrek, Eds?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know that song that existed before the movie Shrek, right?'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I do. So you're a big Smash Mouth fan?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a moment of silence. Richie cranes his neck to look at him and finds Eddie staring up at the ceiling, looking furious. "No," Eddie grits out. "I know it from Shrek."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie whoops triumphantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can we just do some fucking yoga now, please," Eddie begs. "I don't want to talk about Shrek."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're going the right way for a smacked bottom,” Richie says in his worst Shrek impression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Never do that again." Eddie moves off the mat and comes to sit cross-legged next to him instead, on the bit of the floor he spent fifteen minutes thoroughly disinfecting before they started. "I'll kill you if you do that again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You don't mean that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shifts slightly, trying to bring his attention back to his danda or whatever it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sets the laptop on the floor in front of them, paused on the start of a video.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yoga," he says firmly. "No more Shrek."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Half an hour later Richie is lying flat on his back during Savasana, feeling warm and sweaty. His arms are limp by his side and his thoughts flow like murky water. The video has stopped, the woman in it already namaste'd them and signed off, but Eddie insists it helps to continue the Savasana longer than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie isn't sure he can lie still for much longer. His limbs are heavy but the need for some sort of stimulation is making him twitchy. The fact that he is not supposed to move makes it more difficult, some teenage instinct of rebellion deeply ingrained within him, like when someone tells him to keep his eyes shut and despite the fact that he spends seven hours a day doing just that very successfully, suddenly all he can think about is how much he wants to open them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flexes his toes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stay still," says Eddie next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuck?" Richie opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him. "You're meant to be savasaning. Close your damn eyes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm making sure you do it right," Eddie shoots back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Damn, dude, I didn't know I had signed up to yoga bootcamp."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut up and meditate, Rich."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shakes his head and sits up on the mat, rolling his shoulders backwards to get rid of some tension. He does feel better, overall. The slight headache he had before they started is gone completely and his joints feel a little less stiff so maybe exercise isn't really the capitalist scam he always assumed it was. Maybe he should try lifting weights or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nah, it's gone," he says. "No more savasana for me or I'm going to fall asleep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine," Eddie sighs and sits up as well. "Bed?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's stomach does an annoying little flip. He reminds himself gently that there are no implications to that, they just booked a scam apartment and have to share the bed out of necessity. It's not domestic. They won't cuddle, they won't make out under the covers, and Eddie isn't his fucking boyfriend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," he says, his face hot. "I'm knackered. Those potatoes really did a number on me, I'm so gassy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Gross, Richie! If you fart in bed I will kick you out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds so much like he did as a kid that Richie can’t help but smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shuts his laptop and sets it down on the coffee table by the sofa. Richie gets to his feet, noticing idly that his knees don't pop as loudly as they would any other time, and he rolls up the yoga mat. He fastens the strap around it and sets it down in the corner by the sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They brush their teeth together like they usually do, a part of the weird little routine they've fallen into that shouldn't make him feel as pathetically in love as it does. Afterwards he usually sits on the edge of the bathtub or the closed toilet seat and hangs around while Eddie washes his face, applies his toner, his two moisturisers, and his rosehip seed oil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s in those moments that he lets himself think of more. He lets himself imagine what it would be like if this was a constant in his life and there was no end date looming over them, if he could go about his day and know that at night Eddie will be there, looking at him in the mirror and smiling a foamy smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s dangerous thinking. He doesn't know what's happening between them, doesn't know if anything is happening at all, but even if there is something — in three weeks there won't be. They will fly back to New York and that is where Eddie will stay. And Richie will board a plane to LAX where Bill will pick him up from the airport, and he will settle back into a life where he doesn't carry the knowledge of Eddie inside of himself like something precious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe they will call each other sometimes, and maybe Eddie will even come to stay at his large, strange apartment in Atwater Village for a long weekend. Other times they might watch movies together over the long distance, press play at the same time and text each other about it. They might even Facetime while eating dinner and pretend they're hanging out in person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Richie will brush his teeth alone and he will not crawl into Eddie's bed in the small hours of the night. He won't find him sitting in the kitchen every morning, sipping his coffee and reading his fifth trashy sci-fi novel of the month. He won't pretend to let Eddie cook while fixing all of his mistakes, they won't go on outings that look a little too much like dates, they won't lounge at the beach together and complain loudly about how hot it is like they didn't choose to be there.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's fine,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks. He made it without Eddie for twenty years and he will learn to be without him again. He will learn to be alone again. And maybe if he actually lifts weights once in a while and upgrades from an imaginary therapist to a real one, he could find someone else to do those things with. It won't be Eddie, but it will have to be enough. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie falls asleep first, curled up on his side. He is facing Richie mainly because they’d still been talking quietly when he dozed off — Richie was halfway through telling him about the saddest Grindr hook-up he had ever experienced, where it turned out that the guy’s mom had died that same morning and he was looking for a distraction but he just cried a lot and they didn’t even have sex. He tries not to take it personally that Eddie chose that moment to fall asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches him for a while and feels a little weird about it. Eddie looks relaxed, the lines on his forehead softened, his lips slightly parted. Richie can see his teeth and a flash of pink tongue. His hair is now noticeably longer than it was when he first saw him again in New York, long enough that it curls slightly at the back of his neck and strands of it fall into his face when he hasn't rigorously gelled it. It makes Richie feel untethered to look at him, to be so close to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they were younger, back in Derry, he would do this sometimes. At every sleepover he would make himself stay awake long enough to be the last one up so he could look at Eddie without the searing judgement of his friends. He would leave his glasses on for as long as he could, just like he does today. He always found excuses for needing to sleep in the space next to him so he would get to have that moment late at night, and Eddie would always fall asleep facing him, usually because they were having some heated debate about the latest issue of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Transformers</span>
  </em>
  <span> just before he dozed off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie would look at him then, at twelve, at fifteen, at seventeen, just as he looks at him now in this warm and unfamiliar country. He wonders if he would still feel this way if he hadn't forgotten him or if this crush, this infatuation — this love — would have faded out of existence over the long years. There's a part of him that knows it wouldn't have. He isn't quite sure what to call that part — the hopeless romantic? The realist?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie makes a small sound, a throaty sigh, and Richie startles. He watches him carefully for any sign of him waking up but his eyes barely flutter and he simply nuzzles deeper into the pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The glow of streetlights illuminates the room through the sheer curtains, casting it in a faint orange. There's something comforting about it, like this space exists outside of everything else. He lets himself breathe. The clock on the wall is ticking quietly and he has to focus on not letting it drive him crazy, repetitive as it is, and he counts the seconds between each of Eddie's wheezing exhales. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point he has gotten so used to the faint rattle in Eddie's chest when he breathes that he feels unsettled when he can't hear it. The sight of his jagged scar has long since stopped bothering him although the circumstances around it haven't. Now, he doesn't flinch when Eddie takes his shirt off. He doesn't stare, his throat closing up with the guilt of it. There's comfort in knowing that underneath the fabric of his pyjama shirt is evidence of Eddie's strength, of a past they survived. Woven into the gnarled, pink scar tissue is every golden instance that Eddie Kaspbrak fought back — against his mother, against the clown, against the town that tried to swallow them whole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shifts into a more comfortable position. The springs of the old mattress dig into his hip, his shoulder. Underneath the duvet his foot knocks against Eddie's leg as he moves and he waits for a moment but Eddie keeps breathing deeply, his eyes closed and his face relaxed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Richie leaves his foot there, pressed lightly against Eddie's ankle. Possessed by the closeness and something else he shuffles a little closer and puts a hesitant hand on Eddie's waist, above the duvet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The universe doesn't retaliate. There is no angry lightning, the stars don't strike him down, Eddie stays asleep. Nothing happens at all. And so he keeps his hand there, fingers curling slightly, and he feels the gentle movement of Eddie's body as he breathes underneath his palm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hours upon hours later Richie wakes up and finds himself even closer to Eddie than he was when he finally dozed off. And it's not just him either — at some point in the night Eddie must have come closer so his head came to rest on the edge of Richie's pillow. Their legs are tangled together, Eddie's knee between Richie's thighs, and his arm is wrapped around Eddie's waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're cuddling. Not accidentally spooning like they had weeks ago, not sort of touching, but cuddling like it's exactly where they both want to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie's glasses are askew on his face because he never actually got around to taking them off last night, too busy staring at Eddie like Edward fucking Cullen. He wants to straighten them but that would mean removing his arm from Eddie's waist and he doesn't know if he will ever get the chance again so he leaves them as they are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the universe would have it, Eddie wakes up not long after. Richie first notices his breathing becoming irregular, the gaps between each inhale shortening, and then his eyes flutter open. For a split second he considers feigning sleep but he doesn't make a decision fast enough so he finds himself with Eddie blinking blearily at him, just inches from his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hi," Eddie croaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiles at him, a crooked thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” he says and his voice is just as throaty from sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie smiles back. The bright light of morning creates the illusion of a halo around his head from the window behind him and the room looks like something out of a dream, despite the peeling wallpaper, the spot of damp on the ceiling, the time-worn furniture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, this bed is kinda small,” Richie says then to address the obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet he doesn’t move his arm from Eddie’s waist. And yet Eddie doesn’t move his legs from between Richie’s thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it is,” says Eddie. He looks, briefly, like he is going to pull away. Something about his mouth, the slant of his brows, and Richie wants to tighten his arm around him to hold him there for a little longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Eddie shifts closer to him. He curls his arm casually around Richie’s middle, the flat of his hand coming to rest on his back with his fingers splayed out. It’s a comforting touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie holds his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie huffs out an amused little sigh and buries his face in the space where Richie's shoulder meets his neck. Through the thin fabric of his shirt he can feel the warmth of his breath, the gentle press of his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With every fibre of his being he fights against the urge to make a joke to diffuse the anxious tension in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you a little touch-starved since the divorce, Eds?" he says and then bites the inside of his cheek as punishment. Why the fuck would he say that? Why say anything at all? He really needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a sharp pain in the soft flesh just above the collar of his shirt. Richie yelps and pulls back slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you just fucking bite me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pulls back as well and tilts his head up to look at Richie. His eyes are wide, his face bright red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh," he says. "Yeah, that was weird. I don't know why I did that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having gotten over the shock of it, Richie's face splits into a huge grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're like a small, yappy dog," he laughs. "All bark and all bite."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're still tangled up in each other. This is cuddling, for all intents and purposes, and Richie just has to live with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut your fucking mouth," says Eddie, still looking embarrassed. "I'm going to get a hotel room so I don't have to see you ever again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" Richie giggles. "I should be the one running for the hills."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's never talk about this again," Eddie grumbles and buries his face in Richie's neck once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes him feel electrified. His heart thumps in his chest so wildly that he thinks Eddie must be able to hear it, must feel his pulse jumping under his skin. Strands of Eddie's loose hair, free of gel, tickle the underside of his chin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emboldened, he tightens his arm around Eddie and pulls him a little closer. He curls his fingers in the smooth fabric of his stripy pyjama shirt and rubs his cheek against the crown of Eddie's head, a hesitant tenderness. He can smell the faint coconut scent of his shampoo and a hint of something else, most likely the gel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His glasses are still sitting at an awkward angle but he doesn't dare to move them. There are very few things in life that Richie approaches with any sort of hesitance but this feels so fragile, like any wrong move could shatter this early morning haze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, they are so intertwined that Richie can feel every inch of him, can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the slope of his belly pressed against his own, strong but a little softer than it was the first time he saw him shirtless. Going from eating shitty salad and hitting the gym four times a week to no gym and eating pizza and pasta for a week in Italy was bound to add some pudge to even the leanest of risk analysts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to speak but the last time he tried that Eddie bit him so he keeps his mouth shut. The clock on the wall near the window tells him it has only just gone 9 o'clock and the longer they lie there, wrapped up in each other, the further his thoughts wander.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks back to his conversation with Bev.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think the only thing stopping this from happening is you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What are you so afraid of?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>All of it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie's thumb rubs circles into the fabric of Richie’s shirt, just below his shoulder blade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of ruining their friendship. Of losing him, losing what he has only just gotten back. Of letting someone into his orbit and letting them stand so close they see every ugly truth behind his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eddie is already in his orbit, Eddie is already that close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And isn't Richie brave, too? Didn't he kill Bowers with his axe to save his friend? Didn't he choose to put himself in the clown's path in the cistern? He helped save the world, or at least Derry. He came out to everyone and only threw up once in the process. He started writing again despite the cold fear lodged in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their friendship survived two decades of forgetting each other. Two near death experiences. One divorce. One abusive mom. Several substance abuse issues. It will survive this.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So ruin it,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruin it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses a kiss to the crown of Eddie's head and closes his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In this chapter: Eddie struggles to eat a watermelon. Richie thinks that his life is over. Mike might have to start charging Richie for the therapy he has been providing.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry I've been so bad at replying to comments! I appreciate them all so much, and everyone who has read, kudosed and bookmarked this story! </p><p>Chapter specific content warnings:<br/>Brief suicidal ideation (please see end of chapter notes for details if you are concerned!). Brief mentions of past abuse, specifically Bev’s but not in any detail, just a reference to it. Mentions of substance abuse and alcoholism, past canon-typical violence, and homophobia. One throwaway joke about heroin addiction, but no one is actually addicted to heroin. Recreational drug use (weed). </p><p>The ‘Nouillonalou’ in this chapter is a fictional place. All other locations mentioned in this story so far have been real but after spending two days looking for a village near Bayonne that would match what I was imagining for this scene I gave up and made up Nouillonalou. The name is a Renesmee-esque creation made out of ‘Nouillonpont’ and ‘Lamalou’, two real places in France that I’ve never been to. If anyone reading this speaks French and would like to tell me that it makes absolutely no sense within the context of the language, please be gentle about it because I am small and a little stupid.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's a five hour drive from Madrid to the coast in Pyrénées-Atlantiques. The route takes them along a plain, uninspiring stretch of highway past Burgos and up to San Sebastian, through the Basque Autonomous Community. Eddie drives for the first few hours and then they swap during their toilet break at a rest stop just past Elgoibar on the AP-8.</p><p>Outside, the heat is blistering. They drink their vending machine drinks in the car with the A/C blasting cold air at them, the music cranked up high. Eddie is in control of it this time, although Richie does get one veto per half hour. He makes good use of it mainly to skip some of the moodier songs — <em> "Really, Eds, are you trying to give me clinical depression?" — </em>as well as any Bruce Springsteen that comes up. Eddie sidesteps this by putting on a different Bruce Springsteen song whenever Richie uses his veto on him.</p><p>"That's not fair!" Richie tries to wrestle the phone out of his hand. "I'm vetoing all of Bruce Springsteen's discography!"</p><p>"Nope, that's not how this works," says Eddie smugly as he puts on The Promised Land. "What do you have against the Boss, anyway?"</p><p>"Ugh, don't capitalise the 'B' like that," Richie groans.</p><p>"I'm not capitalising shit! I'm speaking out loud!"</p><p>"Mercy, please!"</p><p>"I think you're jealous," Eddie says.</p><p>Richie balks. "Of Bruce Springsteen?!"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Eddie bobs his head in time with the music, a sharp grin on his face. Richie takes a nervous sip of his coke. </p><p>"He's effortlessly cool," Eddie elaborates. "And you have never been effortlessly cool in your entire life. In fact, I would argue that you have never been cool at all."</p><p>"You would," Richie grumbles. "I'm not jealous of Bruce Springsteen. I am way fucking cooler than Bruce Springsteen."</p><p>Eddie barks out a laugh. "Oh, you wish you could pull off sleeveless leather like that man."</p><p>He fiddles with his phone for a moment and then shows Richie a picture of Bruce Springsteen rocking the fuck out of a leather vest, his well-defined arms on full display and glistening with sweat.</p><p>Richie stares at it. Then he asks, slowly, "So... Do you have a folder of Bruce Springsteen pictures on your phone?"</p><p>Eddie pulls his phone back and stuffs it into his pocket. "No," he says quickly, his face red.</p><p>"You do," Richie says gleefully. "You absolutely do. That's so gay."</p><p>"Eat shit."</p><p>With a bright laugh, Richie starts the engine and manoeuvres them out of the parking lot, back onto the road to Pyrénées-Atlantiques. </p><p>Things are easy between them now. Since their morning cuddling — yes, cuddling, what the fuck is that about — in Madrid, Richie has felt emboldened and a little giddy, like they are on the cusp of something and he just has to push.</p><p>And push he does. Casual touches, a hand on Eddie's back when he moves past him in the kitchen, an arm slung around his shoulder as they walk on cobbled streets, his palm covering Eddie's hand where it lies on the table. Eddie never once pulls away. He leans into him, puts his feet in Richie's lap when they lounge around on the sofa at night, turns his hand over underneath his to interlace their fingers. Like it's nothing. Like there's nowhere he would rather be.</p><p>So, yes. Richie is feeling optimistic about this one. It's a strange and unfamiliar feeling but he is choosing to embrace it because what choice does he have? Really? On the other side of optimism lies cold, harsh dread. An anxiety so entrenched in him, rooted deep in the abandonment issues his future therapist will certainly point out to him. The need to be loved but  unable to make himself loveable.</p><p>But Eddie is here, and he touches Richie's arm whenever he wants his attention. He lingers there, fingers brushing the thin skin of his wrist. Eddie laughs even when the joke does not deserve it. Eddie plays love songs and mouths the lyrics, and when Richie glances over at him he doesn't look away.</p><p> </p><p>Their house by the sea is secluded as promised, tucked away behind a small stretch of forest. The road through it is worn and unpaved, and Eddie curses himself for booking this place as they drive down it.</p><p>"We're going to get murdered here," he says, an edge of hysteria to his voice. "I can feel it. This is a goddamn horror movie."</p><p>"Aw, baby, I'll protect you," Richie coos. </p><p>Eddie groans. "Yeah, I’m definitely going to die."</p><p>"I'm going to choose not to be offended by that."</p><p>"Really? Why?"</p><p>The trees part and reveal dunes to one side and a house to the other. It's small but pretty, faded orange walls surrounded by a garden overgrown with wild flowers and lined with rose bushes blooming peach pink. At the bottom of the garden is a wooden path leading into the dunes. To the left of it stands a tall, bushy hawthorn tree, still carrying the remnants of its springtime bloom.</p><p>"Damn," Richie says. "At least our deaths will be picturesque."</p><p>They unload the car and take a look around the house. The inside is just as pretty as the outside, if a little rustic. The kitchen cabinets are painted bright yellow, there is art along the walls in every room, watercolour landscapes and contemporary ink work, photographs of various places, like harbours and quaint villages, fields of lavender and azure blue seas. Their rooms are small but cozy, with colourful quilts on the beds and warm, wooden floors. The window in his room overlooks the dunes to the left of the house.</p><p>It's charming, Richie decides. It's the sort of place quirky newlyweds come to spend their honeymoon. It's the sort of place you show pictures of when people ask about your trip, and everyone oohs and aahs with a hint of jealousy. It's the sort of place where romantic movies culminate. Secluded, quaint, French.</p><p>Exhausted from the drive, they decide to stay in and have spaghetti with a basic tomato sauce, practically spartan compared to the meals Richie usually cooks. They always have some form of pasta and at least one or two tins of chopped tomatoes in their luggage, carried with them from city to city so they don't need to go to the store as soon as they arrive in a new place. For dessert Richie cuts up the watermelon they bought the day before and they eat it in the garden. In the not so far distance they can hear the sound of the ocean, the ebb and flow of waves as the gentle wind carries them to shore.</p><p>Richie is craving a drink but refusing to give in, despite the siren call of the two beers in the fridge and the unopened bottle of Rioja from Madrid. Eddie bought them for himself and that is enough to stop him. It's been surprisingly easy so far but he knows that back home will be a different story. Here, he has Eddie and is never alone. Here, he has the cities and the sea and decadent food.</p><p>Eddie eats watermelon like he has never encountered one before, pink juice dripping down his fingers, along the back of his hand and onto the table. He pointlessly licks his lips like that will do anything to stop it and holds the rind like he doesn’t know how his hands work. </p><p>Richie watches him curiously, enthralled by the absolute carnage of it.</p><p>"Do you need a napkin or something?" he asks, amused.</p><p>"Don't mock me," Eddie says around a mouthful of melon.</p><p>"I'm not!" He is. "Just trying to help. You look like you need a napkin."</p><p>"Fuck you."</p><p>Eddie looks at him with dark eyes. He swipes his tongue along the length of his thumb where a trickle of watermelon juice had dripped down it without breaking eye contact. Richie can feel himself flush bright red.</p><p>Embarrassed, like some sort of prude, he gets up and goes inside to get a napkin.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie must want him dead, he decides later that night once the watermelon is all gone and he is lying on his bed, limbs splayed out like a starfish. There's no way he isn't doing this on purpose — the ice cream on the promenade, Eddie's hands on his back at Ocata Beach, the watermelon in the garden. And everything beyond it, too, every covert glance or not so covert look a challenge.</p><p>He thinks back to the hallway of their Berlin apartment. He thinks about the hardwood floor beneath his knees, about Eddie's hand curled around his chin and his thumb on his lip. Richie might be anxious and afraid of rejection but he certainly isn't stupid. He can add those things up to look at the bigger picture and decipher the message, can find that it reads <em> he wants you, he wants you, he wants you. </em></p><p>Now that he lets himself see it, it's almost funny that he didn't before. Funny but not surprising, considering that this is Eddie and the stakes have never been higher — if he fucks this up he might lose him. He closes his eyes and considers, once again, a potential future in which things don't work out in the way romcoms do. He imagines his hypothetical boyfriend Josh-Andy-Dylan who is probably dark haired and looks at least a little bit like Eddie but can never be him, shouldn't have to be him. He imagines Eddie with some other, sensible man, a John-Anthony-Daniel, who works in finance, owns a sleek apartment on Staten Island and says things like, "There's a new CrossFit gym opening up on Richmond Terrace" and, "Babe, I bought this avocado hummus for us to try."</p><p>It's a bleak future for both of them but more so for Richie. Eddie might even be happy with his Staten Island banker, but Richie could never be happy with Josh-Andy-Dylan, who probably surfs and thinks that liking pizza is a personality trait. A part of him — perhaps the most vital part — will always belong to Eddie. </p><p> </p><p>The next day in nearby Bayonne, Richie somehow procures two grams of weed. Eddie nearly bites his head off for it but it does little to dull his excitement about the prospect of not being sober for once.</p><p>"I can't fucking believe you," Eddie hisses, waving his hands in the air angrily. "We could have been arrested. It could be laced with heroin and you'll get hooked on that and die of withdrawals. He could have been an undercover cop."</p><p>They're walking through a cobbled side street in the vague direction of a café that TripAdviser recommended. The air is warm but not unbearably so and the streets are lined with high and colourful apartment buildings, some of the windows shuttered to keep out the heat. Most have juliet balconies with flowers spilling over the railing. It's quaint, just like their house. Richie thinks he could get lost here and emerge days later, feeling like no time has passed at all.</p><p>"I don't think the police here spend their time employing random teenagers to offer weed to American tourists," Richie tells him and pushes his glasses up where they keep sliding down the sweaty bridge of his nose. "And if I get addicted to heroin I trust you to take good care of me while I'm in withdrawal."</p><p>"I'm not going to do shit for you if you get addicted to heroin," Eddie snaps.</p><p>Richie laughs. "You like me too much to let me die," he says and puts his arm around Eddie's shoulders. He pulls him a little closer as they walk. </p><p>Eddie says, "I don't like you at all," which is clearly a fucking lie because as he says it he leans in and wraps his arm around Richie's waist.</p><p> </p><p>That night they carry blankets, snacks and drinks down the path between the dunes and set up on the beach. Richie runs hotter than Eddie, who has bad circulation and no fat reserves, so although the evening is too chilly for a swim Richie is still in shorts and a t-shirt. Eddie, meanwhile, has bundled himself up in lounge pants and a soft, red sweater that hangs loosely on him. He looks ruffled and relaxed, his hair windswept.</p><p>They bought a huge paper bag of cherries in town and are now passing it back and forth between them. Prudence, their bluetooth speaker, stands upright at the edge of the blue and pink striped picnic blanket and Ariel Pink is singing that with you I swear it feels like heaven.</p><p>Like children, they make a game out of seeing who can spit the cherry pits the furthest. Richie gets up to draw a line in the sand whenever one of them beats the best distance. They don't stop until they've finished the bag and their mouths are stained dark red.</p><p>"My stomach hurts," Richie groans and flops onto his back, his limbs outstretched.</p><p>Eddie looks at him with a single, dark eyebrow raised. "Shouldn't have eaten so many cherries,” he says.</p><p>"The hell? You ate just as many."</p><p>"Yeah, but I can handle it. Clearly you can't."</p><p>Richie crumples up the empty paper bag and throws it at Eddie's head, then crosses his arms behind his head and stares at the stars above. There's only a faint slither of clouds on the horizon, just above where the sun set long ago, and the rest of the sky is clear. The moon is waning, days after a full moon that had kept him awake at night.</p><p>The paper ball hits him in the chest.</p><p>"Stop moping," says Eddie. "We're having fun."</p><p>"I'm not moping, I’m stargazing."</p><p>Richie sits up and looks for the joint he rolled at the kitchen table before they went outside. He had to buy a grinder and rolling papers from a skate shop in Bayonne that he spent twenty minutes looking for, much to Eddie's annoyance. He finds it in the pocket of his shorts, a little squished but still salvageable. It's a terrible roll, wrinkled and uneven, so bad that he sent a picture of it to Bev so she could laugh at him. </p><p>He holds the joint between his lips and cups his hands over it to shield it from the wind as he lights it. The lighter is one he bought in Berlin, it's cheap and he is surprised it even lasted this long, so the first few attempts are just pathetic sparks. On what must be the tenth try he finally manages to light the tip.</p><p>He takes a few quick drags to make sure it stays lit, then sighs happily and tilts his head back to blow smoke into the air.</p><p>"You should quit smoking, you know," Eddie says next to him. Almost like he is trying to be ironic, he unscrews the cap of the red wine he'd bought at the supermarket that day and he takes a sip.</p><p>Richie looks at him and shrugs. "I guess," he says. "But right now it's the only thing I have left so I won't."</p><p>Eddie frowns. "You should try."</p><p>"You should stop drinking so much wine."</p><p>With the bottle halfway to his mouth Eddie pauses. He seems to consider it for a long moment, then lifts it the rest of the way and takes a defiant gulp.</p><p>"I don’t have an addictive personality."</p><p>Richie grins and blows a puff of smoke in his direction.</p><p>"Alcoholic or not, it's not good for you," he says. "You get bad dreams."</p><p>"I have bad dreams even if I don't drink."</p><p>"But not as bad. Drinking makes it worse."</p><p>Eddie's shoulders slump and he reaches for his phone. He scrolls through his Spotify library to change songs, perhaps because Tracy Chapman is too moody for him, settling eventually on some 2000s pop song. The air smells of salt and lavender, of sharp, herbal smoke. </p><p>By the time Richie stubs the joint out in the sand he is pleasantly buzzed, feeling lightheaded and a little disconnected from his body. Everything is a little more — the ocean louder, the wind colder, the blanket softer underneath his fingers. Eddie's lips are stained even darker from the wine than they had been from the cherries, and Richie can't help but look. He is drawn to the dark red of them like a moth to the light.</p><p>Eddie's cheeks are flushed as they always are when he's tipsy and his large eyes are wide and dark. His face is achingly familiar and Richie never wants to look away — he would keep a picture of him in his wallet if that wasn’t fucking creepy. </p><p>They're close now, so close that Richie can see specks of moonlight in Eddie's eyes, black as they are in the darkness. Their shoulders are touching, their faces turned towards each other. As always, he thinks about bridging that gap. The urge takes a hold of his heart like an iron fist. </p><p>Faintly, he can smell alcohol on Eddie's breath and the heady scent of his aftershave. It's not the first time that he has been close enough to smell it but he rarely has the courage to breathe it in deeply, to be so obvious about it. </p><p>Eddie's gaze is heavy on him, his expression open. </p><p><em> Ruin it, </em> he thinks again. <em> Ruin it. </em></p><p>Richie cups Eddie's face with one hand, his thumb coming to rest on the white scar on his cheek. He can feel Eddie's breath in hot puffs on the inside of his wrist.</p><p>"Hey," he whispers. "Can I—"</p><p>"Yes," says Eddie. "Yes."</p><p>He surges forward and presses his lips to Eddie's, wine-stained and thin and warm. His heart leaps into his throat and everything narrows down to this single point where their mouths meet.</p><p>It's not a good kiss by any measure. Richie's mouth is too dry and Eddie is tipsy and inelegant but then he parts his lips and his tongue slides gently along Richie's lower lip, and nothing else matters but this. He feels untethered, parched, like a drowning man. It's the best thing he has ever felt, the best kiss he has ever had, as clumsy as it is.</p><p>He sighs into Eddie's mouth and feels a little pathetic for it but Eddie's hand comes to the back of his head and his fingers curl in his hair and he suddenly finds it very difficult to focus on anything else. He slides his own hand down to cup Eddie's jaw and he licks into his mouth, pressing closer to him. His thoughts are fuzzy, everything displaced by a constant thrum of Eddie's name.</p><p>Eddie pulls back a little and Richie chases his mouth, desperate for it. Eddie lets him have one more firm kiss before shoving him back and saying, "You stink."</p><p>Richie laughs and he feels giddy. "Sorry," he says. "If it helps, you smell great."</p><p>The flush of Eddie's cheeks darkens and he blinks in something like surprise. Richie is already trying to figure out how he can get Eddie to kiss him again but it turns out to be unnecessary because Eddie makes a small, angry sound and pulls him back in. </p><p>This time it's less chaste than before, an unexpected heat behind it. Eddie bites his lower lip and Richie feels like his body is on fire, goosebumps sweeping down his arms and along his back. He scrabbles for purchase and finds the collar of Eddie's sweater, holds on tight and pulls him as close as he can, and Eddie wraps an arm around his waist and pulls just as fiercely. He twists his body so their chests are flush together.</p><p>Richie is vaguely aware of the words Al Green is crooning on the speaker.  </p><p>
  <em> Oh, baby, let's, let's stay together </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Loving you whether, whether </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Times are good or bad, happy or sad </em>
</p><p>He is certain that Eddie must be able to feel the thunder of his heartbeat against his sternum. Blood rushes in his ears and he wishes that he was sober for this, anxious that he might forget even a single second. </p><p>When he finally pulls back it's only so he can get off his aching knees and find an easier position. Eddie quickly gets with the programme and shuffles to sit between Richie's legs, bent at the knees, and all the while he keeps touching him as though he wants him, really wants him. Like this, Richie has to bend his head down slightly to kiss him and he frames his face with his hands, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones.</p><p>Eddie back is against the inside of Richie's leg and his hand on Richie's biceps, fingers digging into the flesh of it like he might dissolve if he lets go. His chest rattles with every breath and Richie moves one hand to put it on his sternum, fingers splayed out across it like he can fix the wound beneath if he believes it hard enough. Through the fabric of his sweater he can feel the knotted scar tissue and below it the rise and fall of his chest, constant and alive. Eddie brings his hand down to cover Richie's, a gentle pressure.</p><p>The breeze ruffles his hair and tugs at his shirt, making him shudder, but Eddie's mouth is warm and wet and pliant against his, a lovely contrast to the cold air. Richie sinks into it like a hot bath at the end of the day.</p><p>They kiss like that for a long time, so long in fact that Richie starts to think they might never stop — he certainly doesn't want to. If he were entirely sober he might overthink this more, might spiral into a quivering mess of worry, but he is still buzzed and blurred around the edges. </p><p>At one point he reluctantly pulls back to slide his glasses off his face because they’re digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose, and Eddie laughs at him for it. </p><p>“Just wear contacts, dumbass.” </p><p>“They hurt my eyes,” Richie says with a pout. </p><p>Eddie kisses the expression away indulgently. </p><p>There's no urgency to it although the heat in Richie's stomach never abates, and warm want thrums beneath his skin like electricity. It's only now, after god knows how long, with the air growing colder around them and sending shivers down his spine, that Richie pushes a little closer and runs his palm down Eddie's side. He presses his lips to the corner of his mouth and then kisses down his chin, along his jaw, noses at the soft spot just below his ear, and he licks along the column of his throat.</p><p>Eddie makes a strangled sound and pulls Richie back up by his hair, not ungently but with clear intent behind it, bossy in a way only he can be. Richie is more than happy to let himself be manhandled and he goes back to kissing Eddie with a pleased hum. It feels desperate now and he grips Eddie's hip as he licks behind his teeth, wanting to be impossibly closer to him. Eddie's blunt fingernails dig into his scalp where he is still cupping the back of Richie’s head. </p><p>Feeling bold, Richie slides his hand underneath Eddie’s sweater and runs it along the dark trail of hair there, the way that he has imagined it every time he's seen him shirtless in the last two months. He feels the waistband of Eddie’s jeans, dips his fingers beneath it to touch soft skin. Underneath his hand, Eddie's stomach tenses and his mouth goes slack against Richie's. A sharp inhale, almost pained.</p><p>Richie pulls back, startled. </p><p>Eddie stares at him with wide eyes, his thin lips wet with spit and red, from wine and from kissing him.  </p><p>“Are you— What’s wrong?” He feels like he’s wrapped in gauze, the last of his high ebbs and flows within him. </p><p>When Eddie doesn’t respond Richie tries, “Speechless, huh? Damn, I really am that good.” A pathetic attempt at diffusing the tension, he could never just sit with it. </p><p>Then Eddie says, “I’m— Fuck. I can’t. Rich, I can’t,” and the air goes out of Richie like he’s been punched. </p><p>“Oh.” He removes his hand back from underneath Eddie’s sweater. The grief is instantaneous. “Right, okay.” </p><p>He blindly feels for his glasses on the blanket and slides them back onto his nose. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, his features now clear again. “I’m drunk, you’re high, this is a stupid idea.” </p><p><em> An idea </em>, that’s what it is to him. Not the culmination of thirty years of longing, but an idea. And a bad one at that. </p><p>Richie feels like he’s been shot. </p><p>“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” He shuffles backwards to put some distance between them. “This is nothing. We can just... I don’t know. What happens in France stays in France or whatever.” </p><p>“That’s not what I’m saying, dipshit,” Eddie says and shifts, arms crossed over his chest. He looks impossibly young, hunched in on himself, but his eyebrows are drawn down into a deep frown all the same. </p><p>Richie thinks that maybe Eddie was born with that frown, three weeks premature, tiny and furious with the world. </p><p>He tries to think but his head is fuzzy. The playlist ended at some point while they were kissing and they’d been too distracted to notice. Now he wishes for music because the silence is deafening — nothing but the sound of the ocean. </p><p>“Eddie, Eds, let’s just—” he starts but doesn’t know how to finish. “We can just go back to what we were doing. It doesn’t need to be anything, uh, more.” </p><p><em> Please </em> , he thinks. <em> Please kiss me again, this can’t be it. Love me, love me, love me.  </em></p><p>The court jester before the king. </p><p>Eddie takes deep, ragged breaths like he has been running for miles, Richie watches as he untangles himself and sits up on his knees, for a brief, joyous moment he thinks he might lean forward to kiss him again, but the hope is crushed just as quickly as it arises. Eddie sits back on his heels and stares at him, his face shuttered. </p><p>Richie drags a nervous hand through his hair and tries to breathe. This is all Bev’s fucking fault. </p><p>
  <em> What are you so afraid of?  </em>
</p><p>This, Beverly! Exactly fucking this! </p><p>“I’m going to, uh,” Eddie starts. </p><p>In a fit of desperation, Richie lurches forwards and grabs Eddie’s face with his hands. </p><p>“Stay, please,” he says, almost begging. He isn’t proud of it, knows that he needs to let him leave. </p><p>Eddie’s eyes widen, startled, and he stays frozen for a long moment. Then he wraps gentle fingers around Richie’s wrists and pulls his hands away from his face. </p><p>He says, “I’m going back to the house,” and gets to his feet. </p><p>Richie drops his hands into his lap and digs blunt nails into his thighs. He watches as Eddie picks up the empty wine bottle and the crumpled paper bag, stained red from the cherries. </p><p>“Goodnight, Rich.”</p><p>Eddie stands above him and a halo of moonlight frames his head. His face is shadowed, deep valleys of age, his dark hair is sticking up at odd angles and Richie thinks: <em> I did that, it was my hand in his hair.  </em></p><p>“Goodnight,” Richie says hoarsely and he doesn’t watch him walk away. Instead, he looks at the ocean waves gleaming silver. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>That night he tosses and turns in his quaint, little room, in this quaint, little house, and he feels too big for it. Every moment he lies awake the walls seem to come closer and he thinks that the ceiling might crash down on him any minute. </p><p>It's cold here at night. He curls in on himself underneath the duvet, trying to make himself smaller. His legs ache from walking and there's a spring that digs right into his hip bone, it seems to move with him whenever he turns, like he is the princess and it is the pea.</p><p>There's no noises coming from Eddie's room next door and he supposes that's a good thing, no nightmares, but in his catastrophizing spiral, dipping in and out of sleep, he just keeps seeing Eddie's stricken face above him, blood dripping from his lips like wine, like the flesh of cherries. He wants to go to him and check he is still there, that he is real.</p><p>He is being dramatic, he knows this. Eddie is alive and if it weren't for the sound of the ocean he might even hear the wheezing of his breath, might hear him turn in his bed. Eddie is alive, he is safe, he just doesn't want Richie.</p><p>Or he does, but not like that. Not the hands-on-bare-skin kind of want, not the kind of want that burns you alive.</p><p>And yet he had kissed him back.</p><p>Richie rolls over onto his other side, his eyes dry and stinging with exhaustion. The bed creaks with his movements.</p><p>He doesn't understand why Eddie would kiss him for what felt like hours and hours, why he would cradle his face and bite his lip, why he would sit between his legs and pull him close, if it was just a drunk idea to him. In those minutes, hours, days, how is he to know, he let himself believe that Eddie loved him. In fact, he had let himself believe that very thing for days now, perhaps weeks. Too long, either way.</p><p>Now this thing inside of him that has always been there, that familiar fear, roars louder than it has in a long, long time. The fear that he might not ever be enough for anyone, might not ever be someone to be wanted, that perhaps he is simply incapable of having anything real. He imagines a future as Pennywise imagined it for him — ageing and dying alone with no one to miss him.</p><p>
  <em> He is survived by nobody, and will not be missed. </em>
</p><p>Furious with himself, he shakes off the self-pity<em> . </em> This isn't middle school and being rejected isn't the end of the fucking world.</p><p>He stares at the blurry white patterns on the ceiling and wishes that Eddie hadn't kissed him back. </p><p>Eventually, he closes his eyes and when he opens them again sunlight is streaming through the sheer curtains and the birds are chirping outside. It's a wonderfully cheery morning and he feels like death. He wants to bury himself in a hole and stay there for years, or at least until the sun has gone down again so he can pity himself in the dark.</p><p>He didn't come to any sort of conclusion last night. He is still confused and unsure, a little heartbroken, and if he closes his eyes he can feel the phantom press of Eddie's lips against his, can taste the wine on his tongue, lick the sharp edge of his incisors.</p><p>It takes him half an hour to even think about getting out of bed. He spends most of that half hour on his phone, scrolling through his Instagram feed, then switching to his Twitter feed, then Facebook, and finally, in a particularly low moment, to the r/trashmouth subreddit in the hopes that seeing people say nice things about his stand-up might make him feel better, even if it's Reddit dudes. </p><p>The first post is someone asking 'does anyone else think he peaked in 2008 or is that just me', the second one is an unrelated link advertising a male enhancement pump sold for $13 on Wish, and the third one is a screenshot of one of his Instagram posts — a picture of Eddie reading on the beach, dollops sunscreen dotted along his face — with the title 'Anyone know who his boyfriend is? Is he famous?'</p><p>Richie throws his phone across the room and drags the pillow over his face, hoping it might suffocate him.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, the need for coffee outweighs his sad, middle-school moping, and he drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen. Through the window he sees Eddie sitting on one of the chairs in the garden, wearing the ridiculous wide-brimmed straw hat that Richie bought him as a joke in Madrid.</p><p>Richie stands rooted to the spot and watches through the glass as Eddie reaches for his mug. From this angle he can barely see the side of his face, can't make out his expression, and he's not sure if he is disappointed or relieved. If Eddie looked happy right now that would be like a punch to the gut, if he looked upset he couldn't take it, and if he looked indifferent then — well, it's good that he can't see him.</p><p>He avoids him for as long as he can manage, which turns out to be a pretty long time. At noon they bump into each other in the hallway just as Richie is coming out of his room to wash up his empty mug so the coffee doesn't stain it. </p><p>Eddie looks at him with comically huge eyes, a deer caught in the headlights.</p><p>"Hey," Richie says.</p><p>"Hey, Rich," Eddie says. "Sleep well?"</p><p>"Fine, you?"</p><p>"Yeah, fine."</p><p>They look at each other silently for a long moment, stretched out like bubblegum, and then Richie says, "I'm just gonna—" just as Eddie says, "I need to—"</p><p>They laugh awkwardly, though Richie doesn't feel very much like laughing</p><p>"I need to shower," Eddie finishes.</p><p>"I'm gonna wash up my mug."</p><p>They nod at each other like frat bros. Richie flees to the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>Half an hour later Eddie steps into the garden, wearing sunglasses, midnight blue linen shorts and a billowy shirt, and his hair is slicked back neatly. Richie knows by now, through passive analysis of empirical data late at night, that the amount of product Eddie uses in his hair directly correlates with how anxious he feels that day. He theorises that it has something to do with control, like if he cannot control anything else at least he can control the way his hair falls. </p><p>Anxious or not, he looks, very unfortunately, like the man of Richie’s dreams.</p><p>Richie takes a large gulp of water and the ice cubes clink against his teeth.</p><p>“I’m going into town,” Eddie tells him. “There’s a museum I want to see and I just... Yeah, I’m going into town.”</p><p>“Okay,” Richie says numbly.</p><p>“Do you need the car today?”</p><p>He hadn’t made any plans beyond trying not to fling himself into the ocean so he doesn’t know how to answer that.</p><p>“Probably not,” he says. “I’m very busy, uh, writing.” He gestures at his notebook on the table, open on a blank page. He doesn’t even have a pen on him.</p><p>Eddie frowns at him.</p><p>Richie frowns back, drawing his eyebrows downwards to mimic him.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Eddie snaps.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah.”</p><p>The car keys jangle as Eddie shoves them into his pocket. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”</p><p>“Cool. See you later, alligator.”</p><p>“Wear a hat. And make sure to put on some fucking sunscreen,” Eddie says. “And re-apply every two hours, more often if you’re going swimming.”</p><p>“In a while, crocodile,” Richie says to himself.</p><p>“Fine, get heatstroke, see if I care,” Eddie sniffs, turns on his heel and leaves.</p><p> </p><p>At 2pm, Richie decides enough is enough. There’s only so much wallowing he can endure without doing anything about it — and he is certainly not doing anything about it by sitting on his ass and staring at a blank page.</p><p>He calls Mike.</p><p>After seven rings it goes to voicemail, Mike’s oddly hyper “Librarians can be busy too, LEAVE A MESSAGE!”</p><p>Richie doesn’t leave a message. Instead, he googles ‘what time is it in LA’. It’s 5am, which explains why he didn’t pick up. He really needs to make a habit of checking these things before he calls.</p><p>He spends a miserable twenty minutes eating whatever snacks he can find in the kitchen, starting with a bar of chocolate that melted in the sun and solidified in the shape of a nondescript blob and making his way through to what’s left of a stale bag of potato chips that they opened over a week ago while watching a camrip of <em> John Wick: Chapter 2 </em>. Unfortunately, because his life is a fucking joke, the stale, greasy Jamón ibérico flavour of them just makes him think of Eddie, of his feet in his lap as they debated the dubious physics of the stunts, Richie’s fingers wrapped around one of Eddie’s ankles.</p><p>He crunches on them sadly, thinking that he must be the world's most pathetic adult, unlovable and alone in this sunny, yellow kitchen. The white tiles are cold underneath his feet while the rest of him feels like a bao bun in a steamer basket. He imagines that he probably looks like one, too: doughy, pale, and sweaty.</p><p>By the time he scoops out the last handful of scraps from the bottom of the bag and licks the salty seasoning off of his fingers he decides that this can’t just be his day.</p><p>Despite the fact that every part of him wants to lie on the couch and wallow in self-pity, he takes a shower and puts on some shorts and a clean shirt that doesn’t have pit stains and Jamón ibérico chip dust on the front. He makes an attempt at styling his hair with some of Eddie’s various products and then hides the embarrassing result underneath a baseball cap.</p><p>He packs his ratty, college backpack with some essentials — sunscreen (more out of obligation than anything else), a bottle of water, some plasters in case of blisters, deodorant, a packet of crackers — and then grabs his wallet and the spare set of keys and heads out. </p><p> </p><p>Google maps tells him that the nearby town is just under an hour away by foot. This seems reasonable in that moment but by the time he makes it out of the forest and onto a long stretch of country road he is sweating through his shirt and wants to die. You would think that all the walking they’ve been doing would have improved his stamina by now but two months don’t cannot make up for two decades of defining ‘exercise’ as a trip to the grocery store or an hour spent pacing across a stage.</p><p>This solitary walk is giving him way too much time to think. When he catches himself on the eighth lap around the ‘I am incapable of forming lasting, meaningful relationships’ block, just after completing one around the ‘I wonder what Eddie is doing’ block he stops on the side of the road and digs through his backpack in search of his earbuds. Since being alone with his thoughts is clearly not working out he needs to introduce some outside stimuli.</p><p>Twenty minutes into an episode of <em> We Hate Movies, </em> after several confusing turns of the road, he passes under a sign proudly proclaiming ‘Bienvenue à Nouillonalou’. So far, it doesn’t look very town-like but in the distance he sees a handful of houses dotted along the road. To his left, a small smattering of black pines reminiscent of the forest by their house and beyond them the ocean. To his right, fields upon fields sloping up a hill, broken up only by lush, green shrubbery and trees. The air smells of salt and summer blooms.</p><p>Half a mile later the road takes another turn and he finds himself overlooking the small town, more of a village, tucked into a bay, with a tiny harbour and the ruins of a castle standing proudly on the tip of the rocky peninsula stretched out like the village’s arm into the ocean. From his vantage point Nouillonalou looks like barely more than a sea of terracotta roofs and green gardens surrounding a small square down by the harbour.</p><p>He makes his way downwards in the vague direction of that centre point, following a fairly straightforward series of paths nestled between the houses. It only takes about ten minutes for him to reach the square which is larger in person than it had seemed from above. While the streets he walked through were quiet, this plaza is teeming with life, like the beating heart of the town, and behind it the marina with its masts like barren trees. There are market stalls set up in the centre selling fresh produce, cheese, fish, and clothes, and even from a distance he can hear the vendors’ touting although he doesn’t know what they’re saying.</p><p>Richie untangles the cables of his earbuds, puts them away in the pocket of his shorts, and pulls his cap lower to shield his eyes from the bright summer sun. He considers texting Eddie to let him know where he is. Petulantly, he thinks that if Eddie comes home and finds him gone, maybe even worries about him, it just serves him right for ditching him on the beach and again this morning.</p><p>
  <em> Are you thirteen years old? You’re too old for teenage rebellion. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut up, Bev. </em>
</p><p>With a weary sigh, guilted by his own subconscious, he texts Eddie.</p><p>He spends the better part of two hours in Nouillonalou, even treks to the tip of the promontory and pays a 5€ entrance fee to look around the ruins of the town’s castle. There are information signs at various parts of the site that probably tell of the rich history of this place but are unfortunately all in French so he leaves having learned absolutely nothing.</p><p>He buys fruit and fresh vegetables from the market at the centre of the square, mangos and cherries, tomatoes and courgettes, eats most of the cherries he bought while sitting on the edge of the marina, his feet dangling, spitting cherry pits into the water below, endlessly amused by the small ‘bulup’ sound that produces. </p><p>As he sits there and looks out over the fishing boats and small, well-loved sailboats, their masts swaying with the waves, he thinks that maybe he can be okay on his own. The walk, the heat, and the sweet cherries of this town have dragged him out of the pit of despair that threatened to swallow him whole this morning. This is much more productive than standing in the kitchen and eating stale potato chips.</p><p>Eddie might not want him, might not love him, (not like that), but that doesn’t mean he can’t still live a good life. If there’s anything this trip has taught him, aside from how to say ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ in seven languages, it’s that there are things in the world that are worth seeing, things beyond the walls of his apartment and the boundaries of Atwater Village. There are magic truffles and sauerkraut stuffed pierogi, there are strange buildings and lush forests by the ocean, thermal baths in Budapest, bars with furniture nailed to the ceiling, there are stars above him wherever he goes, and people living and breathing, (working, hurting, loving), and the world does not actually revolve around him, or around Eddie, hard as it may be to believe.</p><p>It’s easy to be optimistic here in this beautiful town by the ocean and so he lets himself be content and breathe. </p><p> </p><p>"And he just left?" Mike asks him later when he's walking back to their house.</p><p>He is about halfway there, one hand holding his phone to his cheek and the other carrying the plastic bag of fresh produce. It swings back and forth by his legs as he walks.</p><p>"Yeah," he says glumly. "We just avoided each other all morning and then he fucked off."</p><p>"Very mature of you both."</p><p>Richie snorts. "I just had my heart broken! Let me be a little bitch about it for a second, jeez."</p><p>"To me it sounds like you made out with the love of your life in the moonlight. Not very heart-breaking.”</p><p>Sometimes Mike is cruel. Richie has come to accept this.</p><p>"And then he got weird about it and fucking left, so."</p><p>On the other end of the line Mike hums.</p><p>"He freaked out, Richie," he says.</p><p>Richie scuffs the sole of his foot against the concrete of the road. </p><p>"But why?"</p><p>"You'll have to ask him," Mike says. "My guess is that he grew up in the same shitty, homophobic town as all of us, was so deep in the closet he married a woman, and now probably has some hang-ups about sex with men."</p><p>Richie blinks. He opens his mouth then closes it again, a gaping fish.</p><p>"Uh," he says intelligently. "So what you're saying is that I'm a selfish, inconsiderate asshole."</p><p>"Please show me exactly where I said that."</p><p>Richie twists the blue plastic handles of the bag around the palm of his hand. It digs into the flesh, grounding him.</p><p>"Well, you just showed more consideration for Eddie's feelings than I have in the past twelve-ish hours."</p><p>Mike laughs his soft, deep laugh.</p><p>"It's easier for me to be objective but you're right in the middle of it," he says, which is the nicest possible answer.</p><p>Much like Mike is cruel sometimes, he is also kind. Mike contains multitudes. Richie misses him, in a different way than he misses Bev but in that moment maybe more so. He misses all of them when they're not with him, Bill and Ben and Bev — come to think of it, why are all their names one syllable and start with a 'B'? Small town America is a plague upon this world. He also misses Stan, both the one he grew up with and the one he never got to meet.</p><p>"I guess," Richie says.</p><p>He comes to a stop where the road through the forest begins and he tries to do some detective work to figure out if Eddie is back yet, crouching down to check on the tire tracks in the dirt. It's not particularly enlightening.</p><p>"What if it's not that?" he says and stands back up with a groan. His knees pop loudly. He should ask Eddie for some yoga poses. "What if he is just not interested, not even a little?"</p><p>"If he wasn't even a little interested, would he really have kissed you?" Mike asks. "It's Eddie, man. He doesn't do shit like that."</p><p>"You can't know that," Richie protests. "He was drunk!"</p><p>"Tipsy," Mike corrects.</p><p>"He had most of a bottle of wine."</p><p>"Was he stumbling all over the place? Slurring his words? Did he seem out of it?"</p><p>Richie considers that. </p><p>"No," he admits reluctantly.</p><p>"There you go, then. He overthinks everything," Mike says. "What makes you think he would do something like this on impulse?"</p><p>"Technically he didn't do anything," Richie tries. "I kissed him."</p><p>"I assume you didn't just kiss his limp face for half an hour. He kissed you back."</p><p>Richie starts walking again. The air in the forest is colder, here underneath the thick cover of leafy treetops.</p><p>"He did," he says. And then again, like he has to convince himself, "He did." </p><p>"Richie, I wouldn't kiss you back if you kissed me."</p><p>Richie laughs, although it comes out as more of a startled squeak than anything else.</p><p>"Damn, dude! Don't kick me while I'm down, fuck!"</p><p>"No, I mean— I wouldn't kiss you back because I'm not interested in you."</p><p>"Mikey, holy shit! I am fragile! Can you be nice for a fucking second?" </p><p>"Shut up and listen to me."</p><p>Richie snaps his mouth shut.</p><p>"Okay," Mike says. "What I meant is: If Eddie wasn't interested in you he would not have kissed you back, drunk or not. He isn't that kind of guy."</p><p>"He says he's trying to be more reckless," Richie tells him.</p><p>"Reckless does not mean cruel. Do you think Eddie is cruel?"</p><p>"Well, he can be a bit of a prickly bitch."</p><p>"But is he unkind?"</p><p>Richie tilts his head back as he walks, stares at the thick foliage above. He catches glimpses of the evening sun through the layers of green, and the leaves seem to be glowing with it.</p><p>"No," he says quietly. "Of course not."</p><p>"There you go, then. Just talk to him." In the background of the call there is rustling, like Mike is getting comfortable somewhere.</p><p>Feeling a little pathetic, Richie says, "I'm sorry I always just call you to talk about myself."</p><p>"It's fine but I will start billing you for it soon," Mike tells him. “You should look into getting a therapist.” </p><p>Richie laughs. "Dude, have you been speaking to Eddie?"</p><p>"No, but I've been speaking to you."</p><p>He clutches his chest, deeply offended, and gasps, "Ouch! That cut deep."</p><p>Mike chuckles. "I'm just saying, man. Not trying to be a dick, therapy has just really helped me. And Bill, and Eddie, and Beverly, and Ben."</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, I get the message." Richie sighs. "I just think it would be a waste of time."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"I don't know what I would even say. Where would I start? I don't know what part of all this," he gesticulates to encompass everything he is as a person, although Mike can't see, "Is like, uh, trauma? And what is just my shitty personality."</p><p>"Richie," Mike starts.</p><p>"Don't 'Richie' me. I just mean— Man, what if I'm just like this?"</p><p>"That's not how it works," says Mike. "There isn't some sort of 'real' you and then everything else that is layered on top is trauma."</p><p>"No?" Richie asks, doubtful.</p><p>"No." Mike pauses. "It's like... A jigsaw puzzle. You start out with a few pieces, maybe the edges and corners, a few middle pieces. And then as you grow and you experience life, the good and the bad, you slowly add more and more pieces. And eventually you have a complete picture of yourself."</p><p>"I hate metaphors but I'll humour you since you clearly worked very hard on that one," Richie says. "So if that's the case, then therapy can't help me. I need all the pieces to make up who I am, and if I take any away it won't be a complete picture."</p><p>Mike makes a frustrated sound. "Recovery isn't about taking anything away, it's about adding new pieces that will help you deal with ugly bits, the charred and ill-fitting pieces, ones that will help smooth those out. It's about adding pieces like 'breathing through it' and 'respecting yourself' and 'eating three meals a day' to connect all the other ones."</p><p>Recovery is not a word Richie ever really considered for himself. He isn't so sure what he is recovering from. He's not like Eddie, recovering from a life-threatening injury, from Sonia Kaspbrak. Or Bev, recovering from the abuse she suffered all her life. Bill, recovering from the loss of his little brother and the survivor’s guilt. Mike, recovering from the fire, from carrying the burden of Pennywise alone for two decades. Ben, recovering from being the outcast, the newcomer, from living in a world that would rather he was dead than fat.</p><p>And what is Richie recovering from? Being a bit of a pathetic loser? Growing up ugly?</p><p><em> The deadlights, </em> he thinks then, with a gentleness he does not usually muster for himself. <em> The bullying. The homophobia, internal and external. Addiction. Loneliness, fear, the killer clown. The death of your mother. Losing Stan before you ever got him back. Nearly losing Eddie, your Eddie. </em></p><p>"You're a good guy, Mikey," Richie says. "The best of us."</p><p>"Save the emotional honesty for your chat with Eddie," Mike quips and he laughs quietly.</p><p>Richie isn't too far from the house now, and he can see light in the distance where the forest road opens out onto dunes and their adjacent house, the garden full of pink peach roses.</p><p>He says, "I'll email some therapists."</p><p>"So my metaphor worked?"</p><p>"Don't let it get to your head."</p><p>Mike chuckles quietly. "I'll try hard not to." And then, "Hey, babe."</p><p>"Hi, sweetheart," Richie says. "Are we already at the pet names stage? I thought you weren't interested."</p><p>"Shush," Mike laughs. "Want to say hi to Bill?"</p><p>Richie groans loudly. "Ugh, if I <em> have </em> to..."</p><p>"Yeah, you do," says Bill. "Hi, R-Richie. Stop chatting up my b-b-boyfriend."</p><p>"Oh, but he's so dreamy!"</p><p>"I know! Why do you thu-think I want him for myself?"</p><p>"For the record," Mike chimes in. "I am happily committed to you."</p><p>"To me?" Richie says sweetly. "Oh, honey!"</p><p>Mike snorts. "To Bill."</p><p>Then there's a wet sound, lips against lips, and a high pitched smooch.</p><p>"Ew, I don’t want to be a part of this! Goodbye!" he shrieks and hangs up.</p><p> </p><p>When he gets to the house he finds the driveway empty and he isn't sure whether to be relieved or stressed out about it. He lets himself in through the back door and goes straight to his bedroom to change into clean clothes, certain that he must stink. He leaves a trail of discarded things in his wake, first his shoes by the couch, then the blue plastic bag on the side table, his backpack in the middle of the corridor.</p><p>He puts his dirty clothes in the makeshift laundry basket, which is just a plastic bag from a supermarket in Warsaw, and then puts on his sweatpants and the least wrinkled clean shirt he can find in his suitcase. Fresh socks, too, and he sprays some deodorant just for good measure.</p><p>What for, he isn't sure. He doubts Eddie will be close enough to sniff him. If Richie gets his way, they will have this conversation with ten feet between them. Not because he doesn't want to be close to him but because he thinks it might impair his judgement.</p><p>He needs to stop thinking with his dick and start thinking with his heart.</p><p>Or his brain, maybe. That's also an option.</p><p>Once dressed he plonks himself down on the couch in the living room, his hands folded in his lap. He sits and stares into space for a stupid amount of time.</p><p>If Eddie comes in now he is going to think he looks like a freak, sitting up straight like he's got a broom up his ass. He rolls his shoulders and tries to relax. Takes a few deep breaths, thinks about the peace he felt sitting at the edge of the marina in Nouillonalou. He tries to channel that same energy now but it's hard to find anything but anxiety within him. </p><p>He has no way of knowing when Eddie will be back. It might be another few hours yet, he might be having dinner in Bayonne right now and just didn't think to let Richie know. There's no point in driving himself crazy for the rest of the night <span>— m</span>ight as well find something to do. </p><p> </p><p>Richie hears the sound of the engine while he is digging through the kitchen cupboards looking for anything resembling a blender. He really should have checked if there was one before enthusiastically throwing himself into making mango syrup. The chunks of fruit and sugar bubble away happily on the stove, almost ready to be blended, but his search comes up with nothing.</p><p>There is probably still a way to salvage this. People made syrup before the invention of the electric blender, right? Maybe he can just mash it with a fork and hope for the best.</p><p>He takes the saucepan off the heat and stares at the bubbling, yellow goop like its mere existence is an affront.</p><p>Distantly he hears the jangle of keys and a soft click as the back door unlocks.</p><p>His feet are rooted to the floor. Like an ancient tree he stands there and watches as the bubbling slows down. </p><p>"Hey," Eddie says behind him. </p><p>Richie grips the edge of the white marble worktop. He swallows thickly and then pushes himself away from the counter and turns around.</p><p>"Sup," he says, sounding as un-chill as he feels.</p><p>Eddie looks slightly sunburned around the nose which comes as a bit of a shock. He is otherwise handsome as always, looking like a dream as he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed in the golden evening light. Strands of his hair have come loose and Richie can see the slight curls peek out behind his ears. </p><p>"Did you get sunburned?" Richie asks. "You, of all people? How did that happen?"</p><p>Eddie shrugs. "I was distracted."</p><p>"Oh." Richie shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants nervously. He shifts from one foot to the other. "Listen, uh. Can we—"</p><p>Eddie crosses the kitchen in three long strides and suddenly he is right there in front of him, his jaw set in a determined line. He crowds Richie against the counter, one hand coming to rest on the marble and the other grabbing a fistful of Richie's t-shirt, just below the collar. </p><p>Richie tries to say, "Dude, wha—" but then Eddie drags him forwards and smashes their mouths together clumsily.</p><p>Richie squeaks into the kiss and it is terrible, worse than their first kiss last night, their teeth clanking together and their noses squished against each other, but he feels weak in the knees anyways. He thinks that if it weren't for Eddie's grip on his shirt he might just slide down onto the floor, his bones like jelly.</p><p>He tries to pull back a little and says, muffled, "Eds, what?"</p><p>Eddie jerks his head back and looks at him with feverish eyes.</p><p>"Oh, fuck, is this okay, do you not want to, I thought you wanted to?" he says frantically.</p><p>Richie blinks. "I mean, yeah," he says. "I do, uh... I mean—"</p><p>"Great," Eddie says quickly and then he's on him again, although the kiss is a little less violent this time.</p><p>Richie pulls back again although it’s a struggle because he would like to just melt into it. </p><p>“I just thought we should talk,” he squeaks. “Maybe?” </p><p>Eddie frowns up at him, his lips pressed together into a thin line. “We can talk in like twenty minutes.” </p><p>And that is all it takes for Richie to finally get with the programme. He wraps one arm around Eddie and pulls him impossibly close, their chests flush together, and tilts his head down to kiss him. Eddie lets go of his shirt in favour of sliding a hand into Richie's hair. </p><p>"What's with the product," Eddie asks, muffled against Richie's mouth.</p><p>Richie nips at his lower lip and feels the expanse of Eddie's back with the flat of his palm, sliding across the raised scar tissue of his exit wound. He wants to get his hands on him, to touch him everywhere he'll let him, but after last night he still doesn't know where that might be. So he stays above the waistline and stays away from bare skin.</p><p>"Tried to do something different," Richie grunts. </p><p>"Well, don't do it again. It looks shit."</p><p>Richie huffs a quiet laugh, a puff of air between them. "Okay," he says. "Sorry."</p><p>Eddie pushes a hand underneath his collar and scrapes blunt nails across the skin between his shoulder blades. He licks into his mouth and tilts his head to the side for a better angle, his tongue hot and wet against Richie's, and Richie only has a brief second to feel embarrassed about the high-pitched sound he makes before Eddie's palm presses against the front of his sweatpants and his brain short-circuits.</p><p>So much for not thinking with his dick.</p><p>"Jesus fucking Christ," he hisses and fists his hand in Eddie's stupid, billowy shirt.</p><p>Eddie hums and leaves a trail of wet, little kisses along Richie's chin and jaw, and then sucks a mark into the soft skin of his throat.</p><p>So touching is probably okay, then, since Eddie is giving him hickeys and rubbing his palm against the thickening bulge of his dick. Richie just has to follow whatever pace he sets for him.</p><p>He slides his hand underneath the hem of Eddie's shirt, tentatively at first but when Eddie doesn't say anything or even so much as tense his shoulders he lets himself explore, feels the taut muscles and the bumps of his spine. Underneath his palm, Eddie breaks out into goosebumps.</p><p>The edge of the countertop is digging uncomfortably into his ass but he thinks that he would rather die than do anything to interrupt this moment so he just shifts a little to take off some of the pressure. Eddie's mouth is still on his neck, licking and biting at the sensitive skin like a vampire who isn't very good at what he does, and he is still palming him through the thick fabric of his sweatpants. </p><p>Richie wants to return the favour, can think of little else but the idea of getting his hand on Eddie's dick, but he doesn't know the rules of this game and he doesn't know how to ask. He slides one hand up into Eddie's hair, slick with gel, and he bucks his hips helplessly against the pressure.</p><p>"Yeah," Eddie mumbles against his neck, his breath hot on his skin. He runs his thumb along the length of Richie's dick and follows it up with the ball of his hand. “C’mon, Rich.” </p><p>"Yeah?" Richie breathes. "Can I—?"</p><p>Eddie's head comes back up and he presses a warm kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Whatever you need," he says and nudges one leg in between Richie's thighs.</p><p>Richie grinds down on it and groans into Eddie's mouth. He isn't proud of it but he thinks that he could come from just this, the friction and Eddie pressed up against him like he wants to be there.</p><p>It's not long before he has to stop and pull back. </p><p>"Dude, I don't want to come in my pants," he says breathlessly and tugs at the collar of his shirt to let some air in, his chest sweaty and hot.</p><p>"Why not?" Eddie asks. His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, more pupil than not, and his face is flushed red. Richie wants to get down on his knees and suck his dick more than he has ever wanted anything in his life.</p><p>He runs his fingers through Eddie's hair at the back of his head and scratches his nails along his scalp. "I'm forty years old," he says.</p><p>"Forty-two," Eddie corrects him and drags him back in for another bruising kiss. He licks behind his teeth and his fingers ghost along the waistband of Richie's pants.</p><p>The implications make Richie pant into Eddie's mouth, every single nerve ending firing up. And they don't stay just implications for very long, because then Eddie slides his hand under the elastic and wraps warm fingers around Richie's cock.</p><p>Richie wishes he was lying the fuck down, he thinks his knees might give out. "Oh my god," he hisses. "Fucking Jesus."</p><p>"Don't be such a virgin," Eddie says and jacks him off with slow, precise movements of his wrist.</p><p>"Don't be such an asshole," Richie shoots back, but Eddie isn't wrong. He feels like he's about two seconds from shooting his load like no one has ever touched his dick before.</p><p>Desperate to prolong this experience he tries to think of unsexy things, but all his brain supplies him with is the mental image of Eddie, bare-chested and glistening with sweat at the beach in Spain, in Italy, here in France. And unfortunately reality is not any more helpful, because the real Eddie is watching him intently and spreading precum across the head of his dick.</p><p>In an effort to distract himself even a little from the building pressure in his lower belly he pushes the collar of Eddie's shirt to one side and bends his head down to kiss Eddie's neck. He doesn't leave any hickeys because he thinks Eddie might rip his head off for it and although that is not a certainty it is still a possibility too real to ignore. So he contents himself with dragging the flat of his tongue from his jaw all the way down to his collarbone, and placing open-mouthed kisses along his jugular.</p><p>He runs an uncertain hand across Eddie’s chest and down to the waistband of his shorts but Eddie quickly nudges him out of the way. He takes the hint and pushes his hand underneath his shirt instead, feeling the warm skin of his flat stomach. </p><p>“You sure?” Richie asks and draws back to look at him. “I can—” </p><p>“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Eddie says primly, like Richie has offered him a cup of tea instead of a hand job. </p><p>With a hum Richie goes back to nosing along his neck. </p><p>Eddie strokes him like he knows exactly what he's doing, his grip tight but not too tight, and whenever he picks up the pace it leaves Richie panting. </p><p>"I'm not gonna last," Richie grits out and he brings his head up to kiss Eddie again.</p><p>"Okay," Eddie says against his mouth and his hand speeds up on Richie’s dick. "That's— Yeah, I want you to come."</p><p>Richie chokes out a truly pathetic moan. He bucks his hips and reaches one hand back to grip the countertop for some purchase, the muscles in his stomach tensing. He makes aborted little "ah, ah, ah" noises while Eddie sucks another hickey into the skin just underneath his jaw.</p><p>His orgasm builds in his lower abdomen and he fucks into Eddie's fist, breathless with it. </p><p>"Eddie, baby, I'm gonna—" he chokes out and his hips stutter as he comes in hot spurts into his sweatpants with a stifled moan. </p><p>Eddie strokes him through it but stops a little too early, pulls his hand out of his pants and leaves Richie sensitive and gasping. </p><p>"Shit," he says intelligently and leans his forehead against Eddie's. "Here, let me—"</p><p>He trails his hand down to the waistband of Eddie's shorts again and tugs at it. Eddie grabs his wrist.</p><p>"No, really, it's fine."</p><p>Richie blinks at him slowly, chameleon-like. "Uh, okay."</p><p>He wants to kiss him again, desperately so, and he makes a small move forward for it but abandons ship when Eddie lets go of his wrist and untangles himself, then takes a step back. Eddie holds up his jizz-covered hand and looks at it in something akin to disgust.</p><p>"I'm going to wash my hands," he says and shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other.</p><p>"Uh, yeah." </p><p>Richie is still trying to catch his breath, his chest heaving. He is acutely aware of the wet patch in his sweatpants and he thinks that getting cleaned up is probably the most reasonable course of action, but still he waits until Eddie has turned and left before he goes into his room to get changed. </p><p>He doesn't quite know why it feels like a walk of shame. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Details on the suicidal ideation content warning: Richie is upset and hopes that he suffocates but there is no intent behind it and he is not in any danger.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Richie and Eddie have a conversation about yoghurt.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Le Mathurin Hotel &amp; Spa is a real hotel in Paris, but I took some liberties with it. I wanted the name because it made me laugh, but I also wanted a very specific vibe for their hotel that Le Mathurin was not providing. Don’t look at it too closely! </p><p>This chapter is dedicated to Lynne and Hannah because I love them and they have been super supportive of this dumb shit! </p><p> </p><p>Chapter-specific content warnings:<br/>Drug mention, alcohol consumption, thoughts about drug-related death (details in end of chapter notes). Mentions of past canon-typical violence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie is taking a shower.</p><p>Or rather: Richie is avoiding Eddie, and he just happens to be standing in the shower while doing it. And if he happens to soap himself up, wash his hair, and obsessively clean his fingernails while he is in there then that is neither here nor there.</p><p>When he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bathtub and filing his toenails fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a towel and dripping water all over the floor, he realises that he might be having an anxiety attack. He realises this partly because he has never filed his toenails in his entire life, and partly because he feels like his chest is being crushed by a large boulder, like he is a car on a mountain road — shattered.</p><p>He stops filing his toenails. He stares at the tiles beneath his feet, blue patterns on white ceramic, mandala-like swirls of colour, each tile a little different. Hand-painted, he thinks, or at least made to look that way.</p><p>So he just had sex with Eddie. Well, sort of. Does an embarrassingly quick hand job in the kitchen count as sex? What was it if <em> not </em>sex?</p><p>He grabs his phone from the side of the bathroom sink and googles 'sex definition'.</p><p>Marriam-Webster first tells him the definition of biological sex, male and female, and then a little more helpfully:</p><p><em> 2. </em><br/>
<em> a: sexually motivated phenomena or behaviour </em> <em><br/>
</em>b: sexual intercourse</p><p>Okay, so a hand job is definitely sexually motivated behaviour, right? There is really no other motivation for it, no one wants to get their hand on someone's dick for non-sexual reasons unless there is something clinically wrong with them. </p><p>He slides down onto the floor and puts his head between his knees. He takes deep, steadying breaths, which actually helps to alleviate the pressure on his chest and so he stays down there until his head begins to hurt from all the blood rushing to it. </p><p>The Richie from two months ago would probably be dancing barefoot in the rain and singing <em> Kumbaya, My Lord </em> in celebration right now, thinking that all of his wildest fantasies had come true. He should be ecstatic. He should take what he can get and run with it, and if all that is is a kiss on the beach and a hand job against the kitchen counter then that is already more than he ever imagined he would have.  </p><p>But it’s not enough, is it? It was never going to be enough. It’s worse to know how Eddie feels pressed up against him, to know the shape of his tongue and the rhythm of his hand, than it would be to just imagine it in the privacy of his own thoughts. Like getting a taste of the sweetest thing and your tongue swells, your throat closes up, so you can never eat it again. </p><p>It has always been like that with Eddie, even when they were kids. Richie couldn’t get enough of him then and cannot get enough of him now, always pressing closer and push-pulling at the shape of him, digging his heels into every laugh and every scrap of attention. If Eddie looked away, even for a moment, Richie was already thinking of ways to get him to look back. Maybe it’s an addiction — he chases Eddie the way he chases the dragon. </p><p>The comparison starts to feel unfair as soon as it takes shape inside of him. Because Eddie isn’t bad for him, not in the way bumps off dirty knuckles in the bathroom are bad for him, not in the way drinking until he can’t see is bad for him. Much as it feels like that sometimes, he will not die from loving him too much the way cigarettes might one day kill him. </p><p> </p><p>It takes twenty minutes and several levels of Candy Crush for him to feel a little more like a person and less like a watermelon with eight hundred rubber bands wrapped around it, moments from bursting with the force of it. When he gets up his ass is numb from the cold tiles of the bathroom and his back aches, a grounding pain. He washes his hands again just to kill time, to psyche himself up for whatever is to come, pretending that his fingernails aren’t already cleaner than they’d been in years. </p><p>He finds Eddie out in the garden, lying on one of the reclined lawn chairs with whatever crappy novel he is reading at the moment. He has changed into a thin, ribbed sweater and his yoga pants and he looks soft and warm in the fading evening light. The sky is streaked pink and orange above.</p><p>Richie sits down on the edge of a chair not far from him, nearer to the table. The stones of the terrace are cool and rough underneath his bare feet.</p><p>Eddie puts his book face down onto his chest and tilts his head to look at him.</p><p>"Hey," he says.</p><p>"Sup," says Richie, echoing his words from earlier. "What are you reading?"</p><p>"<em>The Rise of Endymion </em>." Eddie holds the book up to show him the cover, a dramatic painting of an alien looking dude standing in front of jagged mountains.</p><p>"Any good?" he asks.</p><p>"Yes, I think. You should read it."</p><p>Richie shrugs. "Probably won't."</p><p>"Uncultured," Eddie sniffs. He folds down the corner of the page to bookmark it and then sets it down on the ground next to the chair.</p><p>“You’ve never seen any <em> Star Trek </em> and yet I’m the one who is uncultured for not wanting to read about the rise of endocrinology?” </p><p>"<em>The Rise of Endymion </em>," Eddie corrects him. "You wouldn't get it anyways, peabrain. It's too intellectual for you."</p><p>Richie slumps back in his chair and laughs. "I'm sure I could manage."</p><p>"Alright, well, I'll lend you my copy of<em> Hyperion </em> and you can get back to me once you've read that."</p><p>"As long as you're aware you're never going to get that shit back."</p><p>"It was like five bucks from the used books section, I think I'll survive." Eddie shuffles and pushes the backrest of the chair into an upright position, its hinges squeaking. "What's with the orange goop in the kitchen? Is that dinner? Because if it is, I might get a takeout tonight."</p><p>Richie blinks. "Oh, shit! I was trying to make mango syrup."</p><p>"And you failed?"</p><p>"Couldn’t find a blender."</p><p>"Ah," says Eddie. "It might still be nice with some yoghurt."</p><p>"Mhm," Richie hums. And then, as though possessed by some dark magic, he blurts, "Hey, speaking of yoghurt, what was up with that hand job?" </p><p>"What the fuck?" Eddie gapes at him. "Is that your idea of a segue?"</p><p>Richie regrets every decision that led him to this point. He covers his face with his hands and lets out a high-pitched whine. </p><p>"Stop that," Eddie snaps. "Stop whinging."</p><p>The sound of creaking wood, scuff of feet against stone, and then he is standing above Richie and grabbing his hands to drag them away from his face, hissing, "Dude, be a fucking adult for like one second." </p><p>Richie lets him pull at his hands and says, "No, thanks."</p><p>Eddie frowns down at him and doesn’t let go of Richie’s wrists. It must be subconscious when he starts running his thumb along the thin skin by his pulse point but Richie can't be sure. He doesn’t understand much of anything right now. </p><p>"Stop hiding," Eddie says.</p><p>"Hey, what! Fuck you,” Richie sputters, on the edge of hysterical. “I actually wanted to talk about this! You were the one who ran away. Twice!" He shakes his head. "Actually, three times! 'Sorry, Richie, I'm going to sleep.' And 'sorry, Richie, I’m taking the car because there's a museum I absolutely need to look at today, it might burn down overnight and then what will I do’? And ‘sorry, Richie, I need to wash your jizz off my hands so goodbye forever.'" </p><p>Eddie lets go of his wrists. </p><p>They stare at each other for a long moment, a silence stretched so thin Richie thinks Eddie might just leave again, but then Eddie shifts from one foot to the other and looks away, toward some distant point in the dunes. </p><p>He says, "I thought this is what you wanted.” </p><p>Richie frowns and asks, "What?"</p><p>"I thought you wanted to have sex." Eddie pauses. "With me."</p><p>"I did," he says. And then, "I do."</p><p>He knows that it has already happened but admitting aloud that he wants it still feels like a confession he wasn't ready for. His palms itch with sweat. </p><p>"So what's the issue now?"</p><p>"What's the— What's the issue?" The urge to flee threatens to overwhelm him. He fights back. "Eddie, what do you think this is?"</p><p>Eddie folds like a deck of cards and, like his own weight is too much to carry, he sinks down onto the ground. He looks small like that, defeated. It introduces a dynamic to the conversation Richie doesn't want to accept so he gets out of the chair and sits down with him. </p><p>"Why are we sitting on the floor?" Richie asks. </p><p>"Jesus, just shut the fuck up," Eddie bristles. "I thought you wanted to have sex. You did yesterday!"</p><p>"Um, I'm pretty sure I explicitly said nothing needed to happen."</p><p>"Yes, but you wanted it."</p><p>"Alright, what's your point?"</p><p>Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and looks glum. Either glum or angry, it's always hard to tell with him.</p><p>He says, "I don't know how to do this. I don't know what you want from me."</p><p>"Eds," Richie says quietly. He reaches out to place a tentative hand on his knee. "There's nothing I want that you have to give me."</p><p>"Stop being fucking cryptic! I need words!" </p><p>And yet, despite the tone of his voice, Eddie puts his hand on top of Richie's. His palm is a warm weight and his thumb comes to rest on the bone of Richie’s wrist. </p><p>This makes it easier. Whatever Eddie needs, Richie want s to give, even if it means putting his heart on the line.</p><p>"Okay, yes, I want to have sex with you. Obviously I fucking do," he says. "You were the star of all every stupid, teenage fantasy I ever had. I'm pretty sure my dick developed a pavlovian response to your yelling." </p><p>Underneath his sunburn, Eddie flushes bright red.</p><p>"But I also want a lot of other things. Have always wanted a lot of other things," he continues when it's clear that Eddie won't put him out of his misery yet. "I, uh, I like you."</p><p>It's at this point that Eddie bursts out laughing, which is not exactly the reaction Richie was hoping for but it's at least a few steps up from disgust, crying, or running away. </p><p>He pulls his hand out from underneath Eddie's.</p><p>"Thanks, dude, this is really fucking helpful," he says darkly. "This is what every guy wants to hear when they confess their love to someone."</p><p>Eddie stops laughing.</p><p>"You said ‘like’.” </p><p>Richie frowns. "Huh?"</p><p>"You didn't confess your love to me, asshole, you said you 'like' me," Eddie snaps and he shifts onto his knees. "Those are different things. I thought you just wanted to— I don't know. Fuck. I thought it was just— sex. For you."</p><p>"Jesus Christ, Eddie, you must know," Richie says and stares up at the sky, purple with the dying light of day.  "Of course I love you. I am in love with you. You <em> must </em>know." </p><p>For a moment there is nothing, and he considers rolling over onto his belly and crying into the grass. It wouldn't be very dignified but at least it would make him feel a little better and maybe if he cries hard enough Eddie will take pity on him and forget this whole conversation.</p><p>"Oh, Rich," Eddie says. "Oh, fuck. Uh."</p><p>And Richie throws his head back and laughs, a little hysterical, a lot like a man with nothing to lose. Fuck Pennywise, fuck Bowers, fuck coming out to the world, or anything else he has ever been afraid of — this is the most terrifying moment of his life. If he can survive this, he can survive anything.</p><p>"Stop fucking laughing," Eddie shrieks and grabs his face with both his hands, like one might hold a football or a large melon. "Richie! Stop laughing!"</p><p>Richie does but he is still grinning, as widely as his squished cheeks will allow.</p><p>"I'm trying my best here," Eddie snaps.</p><p>"Shit, dude, this is your best? Please never show me your worst."</p><p>Eddie stabs Richie’s cheek with one blunt fingernail. "Fuck off! I don't know what I'm doing."</p><p>"I believe this is the part where you let me down gently," Richie tells him.</p><p>Eddie frowns, deep wrinkles on his forehead. He looks like he is gearing up for something, maybe a fight, and then he says, "No, I believe this is the part where I kiss you."</p><p>So he does.</p><p>Richie is frozen on the spot for a moment while his brain struggles to catch up, but then Eddie's awkward grip on his face loosens, one hand shifts down to grasp his jaw and the other slides into his hair, and Richie melts into it like ice cream in the summer heat.</p><p>He moves with Eddie, shifting closer until he is on his aching knees in front of him, and he wraps his fingers loosely around the base of Eddie’s neck, pulling him in. Eddie sighs into his mouth, an unexpected admission, and nips gently at his lower lip.</p><p>Richie pulls back, as much as it pains him to do so.</p><p>"Let's not do this again," he says, voice breathless.</p><p>Eddie still has one hand in Richie's hair and is weaving his fingers through his curls. He makes a confused noise. "You don’t want to—"</p><p>"No, I mean, yes, let's kiss again some point, but can we have an actual fucking conversation first?" Richie shifts uncomfortably, his knees protesting painfully against every pound of him. "I see that you've found a reliable way to shut me up but there are several people who will be very disappointed in us if we don't talk about our feelings first."</p><p>"What the fuck?" Eddie says and he pushes Richie's hair back, as though his hairline isn't bad enough as it is. "Like who?"</p><p>"Definitely Mike," Richie says. "Probably Bev. And Ben, although I haven't spoken to him directly. I would say Bill but I don't think that dating Mike has made him any more emotionally intelligent than he was before so I doubt he even knows what’s going on." </p><p>"Hmph," Eddie says. He moves his hand to the side of Richie's face and drags his thumb across his lower lip. He prods at his cheek, runs a finger along the bridge of his nose, along his eyebrows, like he is studying him.</p><p>Richie asks, "You having fun there?"</p><p>"You're right, we should talk." Eddie traces the line of Richie's jaw with his knuckles. "So let's talk. What did you say to Bev?"</p><p>"I said, 'Bev, help me, I think Eddie Kaspbrak wants me dead.' And she said, 'Sorry, Richie, I can't hear you over all the great sex I'm having with the hot piece of ass I call my boyfriend'."</p><p>Eddie hums. He leans close and presses a kiss to Richie's temple, then his cheekbone.</p><p>Richie's heart thunders in his chest. Despite the sharp pain in his knees that is becoming increasingly hard to ignore, he sits perfectly still under Eddie's attention.</p><p>"And what did you say to Mike?" Eddie mumbles as he ghosts his lips along Richie's jaw, his breath hot on his skin.</p><p>Richie shudders. "I said, 'Mike, I'm so in love with him it makes me feel insane.'"</p><p>Eddie inhales sharply.</p><p>"I said, 'Mike, I think I looked for him before I even remembered his name'," Richie whispers.</p><p>"And what did Mike say?"</p><p>"He said I should probably go to therapy."</p><p>Eddie's laugh is barely more than a warm exhale against Richie's skin.</p><p>He says, "I think he has a point," and then he presses a gentle kiss to Richie's mouth.</p><p>It's chaste, over before they know it, and yet Richie feels like he's on fire. He chases it, surging forwards to kiss Eddie again with an open-mouthed want and Eddie lets him have it.</p><p>"I'm not sure this is talking," Richie mumbles into it.</p><p>Eddie pulls back with a scowl. "Ugh, you’re such hard work," he says. "Can we at least take this somewhere more comfortable?"</p><p>"Hey, you were the one who sat down on the floor!"</p><p>"Yeah, fuck me for making bad decisions, I guess," Eddie huffs and gets to his feet. He holds his hand out for Richie who takes it and pulls himself up with a lot less grace.</p><p>He lets Eddie lead him into the house but when Eddie sits down on the couch, Richie sits down in the armchair a few feet away instead. </p><p>Eddie raises a dark eyebrow. "Wow, I thought you fucking liked me."</p><p>"Maybe if you were capable of having a normal conversation without derailing it with... with touching—"</p><p>"Oh, no, not touching! God forbid!" </p><p>Richie throws his hands up in despair. "Shut the fuck up! I just mean, can we sit here and talk about this shit?"</p><p>Eddie crosses his arms and stares at him defiantly. </p><p>The whole house smells like mango from his foray into syrup-making and it feels like days have passed since then but really, the sun has only just set.</p><p>"Okay," says Eddie.</p><p>"Okay," says Richie.</p><p>"What would you like to talk about?" Eddie's voice is dry.</p><p>"Your attitude problem, first of all."</p><p>"Get fucked."</p><p>Richie waggles his eyebrows. "You offering?"</p><p>Much to his delight Eddie actually goes bright red at that. "I don't know what I see in you."</p><p>"I didn't know you saw anything in me," Richie says glibly.</p><p>He stretches his legs out in front of himself and crosses his ankles. Over the years he has imagined confessing his feelings to Eddie countless of times, cycled through every scenario from tearful, Nicholas Sparks kissing in the rain to bitter rejection (yeah, he has a few bones to pick with his subconscious), had spent hours sitting on Eddie's bed when they were kids and thought about simply blurting it out. </p><p>Somehow he hadn't anticipated how fucking weird the reality of it would be.</p><p>So he told Eddie he loves him, in no uncertain words. Several times. And then Eddie said 'oh, fuck', touched his face for like ten minutes, made fun of him and is now acting like he has never heard of the concept of communication. </p><p>And he kissed him, too. That’s probably important.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and says, "So how are we feeling about the whole 'I have been in love with you for thirty years' thing? Because I'll be honest, I am freaking the fuck out here."</p><p>Eddie uncrosses his arms and looks a little bit like he's just bitten down on a particularly sour Warhead and is contemplating spitting it out. The expression doesn't inspire any confidence in Richie.</p><p>"No, um— Yeah, me too," Eddie says.</p><p>"You're freaking out too?"</p><p>"No!" It must lie because the twitch in his eye says <em> I am absolutely freaking out </em>. But he continues, "You're in love with me and, uh, me too. I also am. In love with you, I mean."</p><p>Richie's stomach does an adolescent flip, his heart in his throat. </p><p>"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, okay. That's good!"</p><p>It feels vaguely like they have both been replaced by pod people.</p><p>"Yeah, it is. I think," Eddie says. </p><p>They stare at each other with wide eyes. Sweat prickles at the back of Richie's neck and in his armpits, and he can hear the frantic thump-thump of his heartbeat.</p><p>Richie breaks first.</p><p>"What the fuck is going on?"</p><p>"I don't fucking know," Eddie groans. "Will you please come over here so we can make out?" </p><p>It takes Richie something like 1.2 seconds to dart out of the armchair and throw himself at Eddie. It takes a little longer for them to get their limbs in order but then Richie is in Eddie's lap, his knees on either side of him, his hand is on the back of Eddie's neck and they're kissing — again.</p><p>"Does this count as talking?" he laughs against Eddie's mouth.</p><p>Eddie pushes him back by the shoulders and looks at him with an unhappy frown, his eyes huge and shadowed. Richie wants to kiss the deep lines between his eyebrows.</p><p>"We can talk," Eddie says with an anxious exhale. "I just— I don't mean to keep doing this. If you don't want to."</p><p>Richie is gripped by the overwhelming urge to hug him. For a moment he strains against it because he doesn't want to make things weird, but then he remembers that Eddie <em> loves </em>him, he said so himself, surely that means they can hug without it being weird.</p><p>So he wraps his arms around Eddie, wriggling them into the gap between his back and the sofa, and buries his face in Eddie's hair.</p><p>His heart hammers against his ribs like somehow he has more reason to be nervous about this than about everything else that has happened in the past half hour, but Eddie doesn't let him freak out for very long. He puts his arms around Richie's waist and pulls him close, his face tucked into the crook of Richie's neck.</p><p>It's the second best hug of his life, bested only by the time he cried into Eddie's shoulder in Budapest after coming out to him. The fact that all of his top hugs have involved Eddie could either mean that Eddie is a great hugger, or it could mean that Richie hasn't had many good hugs in his life. </p><p>"I love you," Eddie mumbles into the skin of his neck.</p><p>Richie fists his hands into Eddie's shirt and holds on for dear life, his eyes stinging with tears. He doesn't want to cry but then he thinks that it might not be that bad if he did. Because Eddie loves him, and he might laugh at him for crying but he won't really mind. Eddie knows that he is a crier. Eddie knows that he throws up when he's anxious. Eddie knows every ugly, embarrassing thing about him and despite it all, he is still here. And despite it all, he <em> loves him. </em></p><p>"I— Yeah, oh my god, I love you, too." It comes out choked, unsurprisingly.</p><p>"Are you crying?" Eddie asks and presses a kiss to the soft spot just above his collar.</p><p>"Maybe," Richie says, definitely crying. He tugs one hand out from between Eddie and the sofa so he can wipe his face.</p><p>Eddie laughs his sharp, angry laugh but it's not angry at all, he just sounds like that, high-strung and biting and sometimes mean, but he isn't any of those things, unless someone is being incompetent in his vicinity, or he has had too much coffee, or he feels threatened. But Eddie can be kind and he can be soft and he can be vulnerable.</p><p>"I love you," Richie says again just because he can.</p><p>"Wow, you're going to be so annoying about this, huh?"</p><p>"Yes," Richie sniffles. "And you're going to like it."</p><p>Eddie runs his palm up and down Richie's back, bunching his shirt in the process.</p><p>"Yeah, I will," he says. </p><p>The living room is darker now around them now, the last light of dusk slowly fading, and he thinks that it might be a good idea to turn on a light, but the thought of getting up sounds incredibly unappealing. </p><p>So he stays in Eddie's lap, curled around him like a big boa, until the only light left is a sliver of moonlight that casts them in a blue-white glow.</p><p> </p><p>That night, they go for a swim on their lonely stretch of beach, after four more <em> I love you </em>'s from Richie, yoghurt topped with goopy mango that was probably more compote than syrup, and after knocking a framed photograph down because Richie couldn't resist pushing Eddie up against the kitchen wall and kissing him.</p><p>The water is cold when they first get in but it doesn't take long for their bodies to get used to it. Richie floats on his back with his eyes closed and Eddie floats right by him, and they hold hands like sleeping otters so they don't drift apart.</p><p>Richie's mind is racing with an endless loop of questions, things they should probably talk about and things they absolutely need to talk about, but above all else his body thrums with the knowledge that Eddie loves him, no matter the shape that might take. He had let himself hope, of course, but was quick to accept it when that hope was squashed last night. And still, hope is very different from knowing.</p><p>He stares up at the night sky, clear and dark and full of stars, and his stomach curls in happy knots. He tightens his hold on Eddie's hand. The warmth of it stands in stark contrast with the cool water around them. When he looks over, Eddie is looking right back at him. They grin at each other like idiots.</p><p>"Hey," he says.</p><p>"Hey," Eddie says.</p><p>Richie turns over in the water until his feet hit the sandy ground beneath him and he pulls Eddie close by his hand. He comes willingly. </p><p>Here, the water is too deep for Eddie to stand if he wants to keep his head above water so Richie wraps his arms around his waist and holds him up.</p><p>"Hey," he says again once their chests are flush together. "So we might fall over but let me just try this real quick."</p><p>He lets go of Eddie's hand so he can grab his ass and thigh and hoist him up. Eddie gets the memo and wraps his legs around his waist and one arm around Richie's shoulders. For a moment he could swear he is about to topple backwards with the momentum but he steadies himself, planting his right foot firmly in the sand.</p><p>He whoops triumphantly and Eddie laughs at him.</p><p>Like this, he has to tilt his head back to kiss Eddie. His lips are trembling from the cold and they taste like salt water and shea butter chapstick. Eddie weaves his fingers through Richie's wet curls at the back of his head and licks into his mouth happily.</p><p>It's a good kiss, warm and leisurely. Richie sways with each gentle push of the waves, and he shifts so his weight is evenly distributed on both feet, toes digging into the sand for some stability.</p><p>Eddie's thighs are trembling where he is holding him up.</p><p>"You cold?" Richie asks. </p><p>"Mhm," Eddie hums and kisses him again. </p><p>“You know,” RIchie mumbles against this mouth. “This is why I avoided you after Derry. </p><p>Eddie pulls back to look at him, eyebrows knitted together. “What?” </p><p>“I didn’t know how to talk to you. Without, y’know, baring my entire soul.” </p><p>“That’s such a shit excuse,” Eddie huffs. </p><p>Richie adjusts his grip on Eddie’s thighs and hoists him up a little higher. He presses a kiss to his chin and says, “Is it?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie says, running his palm from Richie’s shoulder to his elbow and back up. “I mean, I was in love with you too and somehow managed to overcome that terrible hurdle to send you a fucking text every now and then.” </p><p>Richie blinks. A wave nearly topples them over but he catches himself and adjusts his stance. </p><p>“You were in love with me back then?”</p><p>Eddie says, “Dude, I’ve been in love with you since I understood what that meant.” </p><p>“Oh,” Richie breathes and when the next wave breaks against them he does fall, taking Eddie down with him. </p><p>They come up sputtering and while Richie laughs, Eddie curses him out.  </p><p>That night Richie sleeps in Eddie's bed for something like the eighth time in the past few months, and it almost feels familiar except for the way Eddie, half-asleep, kisses his forehead, his cheekbone, the corner of his lips, whispers <em> Night, Rich </em> against his jaw, and curls into his chest with their fingers firmly interlaced. That part isn't familiar at all.</p><p> </p><p>They say goodbye to their quaint little house with a heavy heart. Well, Richie says goodbye with a heavy heart while Eddie snarks at him about getting attached to a place they only stayed at for three days.</p><p>"Eds, this house and I have been through some shit, okay?" Richie hoists their final bag into the trunk of the car, the one that is filled with random shit they can't find space for anywhere else, like the embezzled, pink hat with 'Princess' across the front that Richie bought in Budapest, or the little wooden figurine of a turtle Eddie insisted on buying at some antiques store in Hamburg. "We've bonded."</p><p>Eddie slams the trunk shut and asks, "You and the house?"</p><p>"Yes," Richie sighs wistfully and walks up to the ornate front door, painted a lovely forest green. He puts his palm against it and closes his eyes.</p><p>"Are you kidding me?"</p><p>"Don't police my grief."</p><p>"I'll police your ass if you don't get in the fucking car, dickwad."</p><p>"My god, you are so fucking mean,” Richie laughs and blows the house a kiss, then turns around and asks, "Can you take a picture of us?"</p><p>Eddie raises one eyebrow, a skill Richie always envied him for but also thought was kind of sexy, in a judgemental librarian kind of way.</p><p>"Of you... and the house?"</p><p>"Yes, obviously," Richie says and spreads his arms wide. "Quick, I'm posing."</p><p>Eddie scowls and mutters something unintelligible under his breath but he takes his phone out and snaps a picture of him anyways.</p><p>"Can we go now?"</p><p>Richie joins him by the car. "You sure you don't want to go for one last swim?"</p><p>"What, and unpack the entire car just to find my fucking swimming trunks? No, thanks."</p><p>With a dejected, puppy-eyed pout Richie gets into the car and starts the engine before Eddie's ass has even hit the seat.</p><p>"Stop being a baby," Eddie says and darts across the armrest between them to press a kiss to Richie's cheek.</p><p>"Oh," Richie says and his face splits into a dopey smile.</p><p>This morning has been a little strange. He woke up to find Eddie already gone, heard him pottering around in the kitchen, and when Richie joined him he didn't quite know how to act so he just gave him an awkward hug and started packing up the contents of the fridge. Eddie had looked at him strangely but let it be.</p><p>Last night things had felt concrete, real, but the bright light of day brought with it insecurities and fear. Things weren't stilted, per se, but Richie for his part did not know the etiquette of a post mutual love confessions morning, having never experienced one before, and he certainly wasn't about to jump straight to kissing him again, much as he would have liked to.</p><p>So he hadn't touched Eddie beyond that strange hug and a quick squeeze of his hand when they stood brushing their teeth together. How Eddie felt about it he didn't know.</p><p>The warm ghost of his lips lingers on his cheek now.</p><p>"I wasn't sure—" he starts. </p><p>"What? Weren't sure you could touch me?"</p><p>Richie shrugs awkwardly. "Sorry, I don't know what the rules are here." The engine is still rumbling underneath them but his hands aren’t even on the wheel yet. </p><p>Eddie frowns at him. "There aren't any," he says. "I'm not— This isn't a game."</p><p>"Well, there seem to be some! You didn't let me touch you yesterday."</p><p>"I let you touch me plenty."</p><p>Richie thumps his head against the backrest of the car seat. "You know what I mean, Eddie."</p><p>"Yeah, fine, I do," Eddie snaps. "So there is one rule: Don't randomly touch my dick without warning. Everything else is fine."</p><p>Richie sits with that for a moment, turning it over on his tongue. <em> Everything else is fine. </em></p><p>Eddie looks at him with something like a challenge glinting in his eyes, and Richie is more than happy to accept it. He twists in his seat, leans across the console and grabs Eddie by the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a warm, stomach full of butterflies, soft-lipped kiss.</p><p><em> Everything else is fine </em>.</p><p> </p><p>It takes Richie two days to muster up the courage to ask Eddie about the implications of that rule — two very handsy days that they spend making out at every possible opportunity, including, on one memorable occasion, in the Zara changing room when Eddie made him try on a turtle neck and was apparently so overcome with lust he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. </p><p>Richie had bought the turtleneck. </p><p>Despite this, they haven’t actually done anything beyond some aborted dry-humping through at least two layers of clothes since the time Eddie jerked him off in the kitchen, pressed up against yellow-painted cupboards and the marble worktop. Richie doesn’t mind — or rather, he minds a little bit because he would really like to get his hands all over Eddie, actually struggles to think of anything but getting his hands all over him all the fucking time, but he would rather die than do something Eddie isn’t into so. Yeah. He doesn’t mind. </p><p>He asks Eddie in Arcachon, where they're sitting on the massive, sprawling beach that is really just an extension of the big ass sand dune they just climbed, along with hundreds of other tourists. He asks him here because the urge overcomes him suddenly, without warning, and he thinks that if he doesn’t give in he might never do it. </p><p>“About the whole, um, sex thing,” he starts, looking resolutely ahead.</p><p>Next to him Eddie is laying flat on his back in the glaring sun, <em> The Rise of Endymion </em> face down on his chest. He stopped reading a while ago, complaining that it hurt his eyes. </p><p>There’s a moment of silence so long Richie almost breaks and looks over at him. </p><p>Then Eddie says, “Yes? Was there a question in there or...”</p><p>Richie twists the cap of his water bottle nervously between his fingers. </p><p>“Somewhere, yeah,” he laughs, breathless. He feels stupid. This is his best friend. He trusts him! The worst thing that can happen is that Eddie will be a little weirded out, or that Eddie will make fun of him for asking in the first place. </p><p>He takes a deep breath, says, “Are you like, asexual or, uh?”</p><p>“No!” Eddie yells, or almost yells — it’s more like a very loud saying of the word. Richie looks over at him just as he sits up and crosses his legs. </p><p>“Oh, okay,” he says dumbly.</p><p>“I’m not— It’s nothing like that,” Eddie says and scrubs a hand across his face.</p><p>The scar on his cheek has gone pink from the sun, though he always takes great care to cover it up with a thick layer of sunscreen. It’s for the same reason that he usually only has his shirt off for a short period of time when they’re at the beach — Richie has heard the lecture about how scar tissue is affected by sun exposure enough times, and how it’s best to just cover up when possible, as though he is the one with the scars and not Eddie. The only scars Richie has to show for himself are old scrapes on his knees from a childhood spent outdoors and one thin, silver scar along the side of his right thumb where he cut himself on a serrated knife while chopping tomatoes at work decades ago.  </p><p>He should have more, come to think of it. He burned himself on practically every other shift back then, flitting around the place and grabbing hot frying pans with his bare hands in the chaos, or having his arms splattered with bubbling oil. He doesn’t know what it says about him that he doesn’t scar easily. Is that resilience or a body desperate to leave the past behind?</p><p>“Okay,” he says then. “It would be okay if it was, though. You know that, right?”</p><p>Eddie nods and for a moment Richie thinks that might be it, is already working on being satisfied with that answer, but then Eddie says, “It’s not that I don’t want to.”</p><p>Richie pulls one knee up to his chest and hunches over to rest his chin on it. The ghost of Eddie that lives in his subconscious, much like all of his friends seem to live there, makes a scathing remark about his terrible posture.</p><p>“Because I really do want to,” Eddie continues, a hint of heat burning in his gaze where it lies heavy on Richie.</p><p>“You... do?” Richie swallows thickly.</p><p>“Yes, of course I fucking do.”</p><p>“There’s nothing ‘of course’ about this, Eds,” he laughs. “You didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about me, uh, reciprocating.”</p><p>“That was— I just have a few hang-ups. Maybe more than a few, maybe I have a lot of hang-ups.”</p><p>“That’s fine,” Richie says quickly, perhaps too quickly.</p><p>“I know it’s fine,” Eddie snaps. “I have a therapist. I practice radical self-acceptance. I know it’s fucking fine.”</p><p>Richie wraps an arm around his knee nervously and curls in on himself a little more. “Right, sure.”</p><p>“I am very into you," Eddie says. </p><p>Richie flushes from his chest down to the tips of his ears. "D'aww, really? Widdle ol’ me?"</p><p>"Can you please not do the baby voice while I'm talking about wanting to fuck you?"</p><p>So what if hearing Eddie say that makes Richie’s dick twitch in his swimming trunks, right here amongst hundreds of people? No one has to know about it, most certainly not Eddie. He drags his other knee up to his chest with the other one and tries not to go on any face journeys, all casual nonchalance. </p><p>"Um," he says and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. "So you <em> want </em>to have sex with me? Like, for real?"</p><p>"Richie, Jesus Christ," Eddie groans. "We really need to work on that self-esteem, bro. Yes, obviously. You're hot."</p><p>"What?" Richie squints at him. "Dude, I look like fucking Gonzo from the Muppets. I look like a humanoid Bigfoot in a Hawaiian shirt and glasses! And that one is a direct quote! <em> From you </em>!" </p><p>Eddie snorts. "I mean, yeah, you do look like that."</p><p>"See?!" Richie yells hysterically.</p><p>"Okay, but," Eddie says, holding up one finger. "I like that! I like that you’re all, uh, shoulders and arms and hair and your stomach is..." He gestures vaguely in the direction of Richie's midsection. His face is beet red underneath his freckles and the smooth tan. </p><p>Richie bursts out laughing. "Oh, you like the dad bod, huh? That does it for your? My hairy arms and my fucking muffin top?"</p><p>"Do not," Eddie yells and throws his book at Richie's face, "make fun of me right now, this is a vulnerable fucking moment, you asshole, I swear to god."</p><p>"Aw, Eds," Richie coos. "I didn't know you found me so irresistible!"</p><p>"Well, I fucking do," Eddie snaps. "You drive me insane. I want to touch you all the fucking time, it's like I have brain damage."</p><p>"You can." Beads of sweat drip from Richie's hair down his nape, irritating him. He wipes them away with one hand.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You can touch me. Literally whenever you want. It's all I ever think about."</p><p>Eddie looks at him with wide eyes, his lips parted slightly. "Oh," he says softly. "Oh, okay."</p><p>They stare at each other for a long, drawn out second. Richie takes in the sharp architecture of his face, the deep dimples and the narrow line of his nose, the dark shadows underneath his eyes. He's handsome in the truest sense of the word, with his well-shaped jaw and strong eyebrows, and Richie thinks that if he saw him in the streets, a stranger amongst strangers, he would feel compelled to stare.</p><p>But Eddie, this handsome stranger in a different world, finds him attractive. Even the things that Richie hates about himself, the things he pokes and prods at in the full-body mirror of every hotel he has ever stayed in — he doesn't have one in his apartment.</p><p>"We should have had this conversation at home," Eddie says dryly.</p><p>"Yeah? Why's that?" Richie grins. </p><p>"Because I want to suck your dick." Eddie raises a single eyebrow at him. "Can't do that here."</p><p>Richie groans and covers his face with his hands. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters. "You can't say that kind of shit to me! In public!"</p><p>Eddie shuffles closer to him and drags his hands away from his face. He is close, then, their noses just inches from touching.</p><p>"You were the one who brought it up." His palm comes to the side of Richie's face, cupping it gently. It smells like Neutrogena sunscreen and salt from the ocean, a now familiar scent. Richie tilts his head to nose along Eddie's wrist and presses a kiss to his pulse point.</p><p>"I think I'm going to have a heart attack," Richie tells him and lets his legs drop down so he is sitting cross-legged. He brings one hand to Eddie's waist and runs his thumb along the warm skin just below his ribs. "You know I have a weak heart. A frail constitution."</p><p>"Yeah, it’s because of all the fucking cocaine,” Eddie mutters, their lips almost touching now.</p><p>“Oh, baby, you know I don’t do drugs.” Richie grins. He lifts his free hand up to grasp Eddie’s jaw and his thumb comes to rest on his lower lip.</p><p>When Eddie darts his tongue out to lick the pad of it, Richie feels it from the crown of his head all the way to the base of his spine. His <em> danda </em>, set ablaze. </p><p> </p><p>Vinnie Jones is bashing a guy’s head in with a car door in <em> Snatch </em> when Eddie climbs on top of Richie. Neither of them had been paying all that much attention in the first place since they've both seen the movie already and Richie, for his part, is more interested in lazily making out with his boyfriend — oh <em> shit, </em> is that what they are, oh my god, they should maybe have a conversation about that, holy shit — than he is in trying to parse Brad Pitt's accent in this film. So when Eddie pushes him down on the sofa and straddles his hips he finds that he has zero complaints about that. In fact, he stretches to reach for the remote so he can mute the movie.</p><p>"Just pause it," Eddie says and runs his palms down Richie's chest. "I do want to watch it."</p><p>"Oh, so you have been watching?" Richie tugs him down by the nape and noses along his throat, leaving a trail of small kisses in his wake. "You seemed kind of distracted."</p><p>Eddie hums and pulls down the collar of Richie's ratty, old Simpsons t-shirt so he can press his lips to his collarbone.</p><p>"Hey, don't stretch my shirt!"</p><p>"It has like fourteen holes in it, dude," Eddie huffs.</p><p>"It's vintage."</p><p>"It's disgusting."</p><p>"Maybe, but you're making out with me anyways," Richie laughs and pulls him back in, his hand splayed across Eddie's lower back.</p><p>Eddie smiles against his lips like a secret. "Don't tell anyone."</p><p>And then he kisses him in earnest, soft-lipped and warm, and Richie is more than happy to go along with it. Because Eddie gets breathless easily, and not in the good way, they pull apart often so he can take wheezing breaths until his lungs are back on board. Richie would never, ever say that he enjoys the repercussions of Eddie's injury, of him nearly dying covered in grime and blood in the sewers, that he is anything but devastated about them, but in these small moments when he gets to chase the faint taste of sweat and soap along Eddie's collarbone, his shoulders, the line of his throat, he is almost glad for the break. If given the choice, he would never stop kissing Eddie but in those moments he will gladly busy himself with other parts of him.</p><p>Richie comes up to meet Eddie where he is sitting back on his heels, still straddling him, and he wraps his arms around him. He kisses along his throat and sucks a mark into the skin where his neck meets his shoulder and Eddie, who had been trying to take deep, calming breaths, whines in response.</p><p>"Oh, you like hickeys?" Richie laughs against his throat and sucks another one on the base of his throat.</p><p>"I don't— Not in theory, no," Eddie grumbles and weaves his fingers through Richie's hair, still a little damp from his shower earlier. It takes so long to dry now that he hasn't had it cut in nearly four months, and he thinks idly that he probably should've gone to a barber before the trip.</p><p>But then Eddie wouldn't have much to hold on to while they make out, and that would be a shame. He wonders if he could tie it up in a little ponytail to keep it out of the way when it gets annoying.</p><p>"You think I could rock a ponytail?" he says out loud. </p><p>Eddie snorts and nuzzles along Richie's hairline. "Yes," he says. "Would love to say no, but I think it would be cute."</p><p>"Oh, curve ball! You think I'm cute?" Richie laughs and slides his hand under Eddie's shirt so he can feel up the taut muscles of his back, something that he is apparently allowed to do now.</p><p><em> Everything else is fine </em>, he thinks and smiles to himself. </p><p>"Yeah, dickhead, we've established this." Eddie grasps the back of Richie's neck loosely with one hand and pulls him up for a kiss, so quick it's almost chaste. "I want to climb you like a tree."</p><p>Because he is embarrassingly in love and a walking cliché, Richie feels those words in his chest like fireworks. He can feel his face go red in response and considers hiding in Eddie's shoulder so he won't be perceived but he thinks, no, Eddie already knows that he is embarrassingly in love. Eddie is embarrassingly in love back, although he is definitely much cooler about it.</p><p>"Aww," Eddie coos and grins at him. "You like that? You like hearing you're pretty, sweetheart?"</p><p>"Oh my god," Richie squeaks, overwhelmed by the pet name. "Please don't sell this story to TMZ."</p><p>"What the fuck would the story be?" Eddie laughs. "'Famous Comedian Doesn't Know He's Sexy and Handsome?' 'Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier Blushes at Compliments?'"</p><p>"Mhm, they'll pay good money for that," Richie insists and curls his hand around the jut of Eddie's hipbone, pulling him closer. The movement brings Eddie's crotch right against his stomach in a way that he hadn't anticipated, would not have been so bold otherwise, and Eddie sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth.</p><p>"Shit, sorry," Richie says quickly and loosens his hold on him.</p><p>But Eddie rolls his hips for more friction and breathes, "What the fuck are you sorry for?"</p><p>Richie's mouth goes dry. He is suddenly very aware of the way his dick is pressing against Eddie's ass, how difficult that is to ignore.</p><p>"I, uh, just— is this okay?"</p><p>"Yes," Eddie says softly. He cups Richie's cheek with one hand and rests the pad of thumb on his lower lip.</p><p>Richie feels hot all over, his body thrumming with a frenzied energy, and he opens his mouth willingly. Eddie pushes his thumb inside and drags it along his tongue, behind his teeth. When Richie looks up at him Eddie is flushed red, his eyes dark and his razor-sharp focus on Richie’s mouth.</p><p>He thinks about Berlin, about how different it feels now, how sure. Amongst all the uncertainty swimming in his chest is a pillar of knowledge — that Eddie wants him, that Eddie loves him in spite of everything, or perhaps because of. The shape of it he still doesn't understand, but he wants to and he will.</p><p>"E'ie," he moans around Eddie's thumb and pushes closer, sucking on it. </p><p>"Jesus," Eddie hisses. He grinds against his stomach and his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment but then his fiery gaze is back on Richie like there is nothing he would rather look at.</p><p>Richie will let him take whatever he wants.</p><p>“Can you— Can I take your shirt off?” Eddie asks him, eyes wide. Nervous, though he doesn’t need to be.</p><p>Richie nods and Eddie’s thumb slips out of his mouth, his hands immediately coming down to the hem of Richie’s shirt.</p><p>“Yeah, anything,” Richie says and brings his arms up almost too quickly, too eager.</p><p>Eddie pulls it off and discards it haphazardly on the floor. A beat, and then he scrunches his face up in embarrassment and leans over the side of the sofa to pick it back up and make an attempt at folding it.</p><p>Richie laughs, shaking both of them with it.</p><p>“Thought that shirt was disgusting?”</p><p>Eddie reaches over to put the shirt, folded badly but still folded, onto the coffee table.</p><p>“It is,” he says. “That doesn’t mean it should be on the floor. In the trash, maybe.”</p><p>Richie uses the opportunity of having less of Eddie’s weight in his lap to shift so he is leaning against the back of the sofa, his bare skin sticking to the leather. When Eddie settles back on top of him, knees on either side of his legs, he wraps an arm around his lower back and pulls him in close.</p><p>“Hey,” he says softly. He has to look up at Eddie like this and he gladly does, revelling in the sight of him.</p><p>“Hey,” Eddie whispers and runs one hand down Richie’s chest and palms at his stomach, his teeth dug into his lower lip. “You’re so fucking... beautiful, shit, Rich.”</p><p>“Oh my god,” Richie laughs and fights the urge to hide. “Do you want me dead?” </p><p>Eddie grins at him, the usual sharpness of it blurred, but it quickly slips into uncertainty. The corner of his mouth quivers with it.</p><p>“You okay, dude?” Richie asks, reaches out to brush his knuckles along his cheekbone.</p><p>“I want to— Would you blow me?”</p><p>Richie’s soul leaves his body, then, but he manages to catch it and drag it back.</p><p>“Uh,” he says intelligently, his heart stuttering in his chest. Heat throbs low in his belly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to—”</p><p>“Of course I don’t have to,” Eddie snaps and rubs his hand across his face. “I don’t know how to make you understand I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. More than I thought I could want something.”</p><p>“You can have me,” Richie says and his hands flit helplessly along Eddie’s back, feathery and hesitant. “You <em> do </em> have me. Anything you want.”</p><p>Eddie nods jerkily. “Will you please just— Just touch me. Please.”</p><p>So he does. He brings one hand between them and pushes it under Eddie’s shirt, feeling the hair on his stomach, the gnarled scar along his chest, and he grabs his ass with the other one like he has wanted to all evening but didn’t feel bold enough to do.</p><p>Eddie lets out a shuddering breath and then he’s kissing Richie again, all teeth and tongue, and what he lacks in finesse he makes up for with enthusiasm. Richie sucks on his lower lip and tilts his head to the side. His glasses askew on his face and dig uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose but he doesn’t want to pull back long enough to take them off.</p><p>He pushes Eddie’s shirt up to his chest, exposing his stomach, and Eddie breaks the kiss, sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt over his head. Richie finds himself, as always, drawn first to the rough burst of scar tissue curved in a thick line down his chest, then the sharp dip above his clavicles, the spray of freckles on his shoulders, the swell of his pecs where — Richie knew he worked out but fuck, the evidence of it drives him insane. The masculine shape of his chest, dark hair dusted across tan skin, the trail of it leading down into his pants in between of the V-shape of his abs.</p><p>“Fuck, you’re hot,” Richie hisses and gets his mouth on Eddie’s chest, leaving warm, wet kisses along the jagged shape of his scar. The thing that tried to kill him, and yet his heart beats strong and steady underneath.</p><p>Eddie cards his fingers through Richie’s hair and cants his hips forwards. His dick is tenting in his pants, those yoga pants that have been driving Richie to the brink of madness for months now, and Richie urges him closer with the hand still on his ass, until Eddie is rocking against his stomach. </p><p>“Eds, baby, can I— do you want me to touch you?”</p><p>“I already told you I do,” Eddie pants, his breath hot on Richie’s cheek.</p><p>“Yeah, but like,” Richie slides his hand between them, down below his navel so his fingers brush Eddie’s dick through the soft fabric of his pants, “Anywhere?”</p><p>“Yes,” Eddie says and his hips jerk helplessly against Richie’s hand. “I like it when you call me baby.”</p><p>Richie buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder and whispers, “Jesus, fuck,” into the shape of his collarbone. He palms the bulge in Eddie’s pants, the heel rubbing against the thick outline of it, and when Eddie moans above him he grabs his ass and hauls him closer, into the press of his hand. Despite their bodies pressed flush together Richie wants to be closer, a hunger deep inside of him at the sight of Eddie sweaty and hot in his lap, the feeling of bare skin on bare skin. He is painfully hard himself and with every cant of Eddie’s hips the hint of friction makes him feel raw and desperate.</p><p>Eddie groans, "Oh, fuck," grabs a fistful of Richie's hair and pulls so he has no choice but to tilt his head back. The sharp pain of it shoots directly to his dick and he can't help but gasp.</p><p>"Shit, sorry," Eddie says quickly and lets go of his hair. He looks startled, his eyebrows drawn upwards and his mouth twisted into a worried line.</p><p>Richie shakes his head, says, "No, dude, it's fine." He moves his hand from Eddie's dick for a moment, instead grasping his thigh and rubbing reassuring circles into the soft fabric of his pants.</p><p>Eddie doesn't look convinced but he relaxes somewhat.</p><p>"You can pull my hair, I don't mind," Richie tells him. "I, I, uh, it's good. I mean, it feels good."</p><p>"Yeah?" Eddie breathes and his fingers come back to rest at the base of Richie's skull, a light pressure. "I like your hair like this."</p><p>Richie blinks up at him and grins. "Oh?"</p><p>"Looks good," Eddie nods. His chest rattles with every breath and it used to bother Richie, used to make him think about screaming his name in grief, his blood warm on his face, of thinking that he'd lost him, but now it's just a part of him, and a reminder that he is alive. "Makes you look a bit like a shaggy dog."</p><p>Richie drops his head back against the sofa and laughs. "Thanks, man. Appreciate that."</p><p>Eddie runs his hand along Richie's chest, down to his stomach, scraping his fingers through the dark hair all along his front. His lips are parted slightly and his tongue flicks out to wet them, tantalisingly pink.</p><p>"See something you like?" Richie asks, still grinning, and he means it as a joke, he really does, but the way Eddie's eyes burn as he looks down at him makes him want a genuine answer.</p><p>"Yes, I really do," Eddie says and rocks his hips forward again languidly.</p><p>Richie's stomach swoops and he tilts his head back to kiss Eddie. He feels lightheaded at the thought that he gets to have this, that he can kiss him whenever he wants to, that Eddie might want it just as badly. Somewhere inside him, teenage Richie is losing his shit. In fact, adult Richie is also losing his shit, he's just better at hiding it.</p><p>Eddie pants into his mouth and says, breathlessly, "Can you— Rich, I really want you—"</p><p>"Yes, anything. Anything you want," Richie says before he can even get the words out.</p><p>For a brief moment the only sound is their ragged breathing between them where they're sharing the same air, and then Eddie says, “Would you kneel?” and Richie has to hide his face in Eddie’s chest for a red-hot moment.</p><p>“Jesus, yes,” he nods, “I will, where do you want me, I’ll do anything, please—” and Eddie climbs off of his lap and sits down on the couch next to him, holding on to Richie by his arm.</p><p>“C’mere,” he says quietly and tugs at Richie’s wrist.</p><p>Richie slides off the couch pliantly, possessed by some desperate urge to do anything Eddie wants, and comes to kneel on the floor between his open legs. He looks up at Eddie reverently, runs his palms along the inside of his thighs, licks his lips. His throat is dry. He brings one hand up to tug at the waistband of Eddie’s trousers like a question.</p><p>Eddie answers it by lifting his hips wordlessly so Richie can pull them off, along with his briefs, never once breaking eye contact as he does. Like a real gentleman, he folds both and twists around to set them down on the coffee table next to his shirt because he knows otherwise Eddie will be worrying about wrinkling his lovely yoga pants while Richie is going down on him.</p><p>He turns back and finds himself closer to Eddie’s dick than anticipated, flushed and hard as it is. There’s a bead of precum on the tip and he wants nothing more than to lick it off.</p><p>“I’ve thought about this a lot,” Richie tells him and swallows down the embarrassment that comes with it. “Like,<em> a lot </em>. I’m surprised I get anything done”</p><p>“Me too,” Eddie says and draws in a shuddering breath.</p><p>Richie grins at him and pushes his glasses up where they’ve slipped down the bridge of his nose, then licks his lips and wraps his fingers around the base of Eddie’s dick. He shifts forwards, adjusting his position to be gentler on his old man joints, and takes the head of him in his mouth, tongue flat against the underside.</p><p>Eddie sucks in a sharp breath and his hands fly to Richie's shoulders, his hair.</p><p>"Fuck," he says eloquently.</p><p>Richie squeezes Eddie's thigh where he's holding on to it and sinks deeper until his nose is buried in the wiry hair at the base of Eddie’s dick. Above him, Eddie pants. Richie stays there for a moment, situating himself and taking deep breaths through his nose so he doesn’t gag because he isn’t a porn star and does actually have a gag reflex, but it’s easy enough to circumvent if he focuses. And he wants to, wants this to be good for Eddie, the best it can be. He runs his palm along Eddie’s thigh and then hollows his cheeks and sucks as he moves back up to lap at the head.</p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie groans and his fingers cradle the back of Richie’s skull, blunt nails digging into his scalp. “Feels so good, Rich— fuck.”</p><p>Richie looks up at him as best he can, at Eddie’s flushed face and his open mouth, his glassy eyes. With a pleased hum, Richie reaches down to palm himself through his sweatpants and starts sucking Eddie’s dick in earnest, bobbing his head and swirling his tongue around the head whenever he comes up, and working the shaft with his hand when he has to pull back to breathe.</p><p>It feels a little bit like a revelation, if he's entirely honest. Richie is no stranger to blow jobs, both giving and receiving, would even say that he has spent some very happy hours on his knees over the last few years, but for some stupid, romantic reason they all pale in comparison to the hot weight of Eddie’s dick on his tongue and the breathy noises he makes, gasping above him. Richie wants him to feel good, could think of very little he would rather do, and he is enthusiastic and sloppy about it.</p><p>And the real crowning glory of this moment is the fact that Eddie is fucking<em> loud </em> . With every curl of Richie’s tongue and every twist of his wrist he moans and curses, fists his fingers into the hair at the base of Richie’s skull and pants, his chest rattling. He says things like <em> oh fuck </em> and <em> that's it, baby </em> and J <em> esus, Rich, your mouth, </em>and with every guttural sound, Richie flushes from the tips of his ears down to his navel and grinds the heel of his hand against his own dick.</p><p>"I'm not gonna last," Eddie gasps and Richie looks up at him, his vision blurry with tears. He's not crying because Eddie's dick is too bomb, he could swear he isn't, it's just that with every aborted jerk of Eddie's hips he nearly chokes — in the best way possible, but still intense enough to make his eyes water.</p><p>Eddie looks wrecked, his lower lip red with teeth marks and his hair standing up in all directions, which makes Richie feel a little better about the crying. He pulls off his dick with an audible pop but continues jerking him off with his hand. </p><p>"Wanna come in my mouth?" he asks, his voice hoarse.</p><p>Eddie hides his face with one hand and sobs. "Yes, please," he says and sounds intensely embarrassed.</p><p>"Fuck, okay." Richie shifts his weight a little from one knee to the other, ignoring how sore they are, and he presses wet, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of Eddie's thigh. "Love you so much. Love your dick, too. Best dick I've ever sucked, no joke."</p><p>Eddie laughs and grabs his arm, tugging at it. "C'mere?"</p><p>Richie nods wordlessly and gets to his feet, although with great difficulty. He is definitely not getting any younger. Eddie pulls him into his lap, a reverse of their position earlier, and kisses him soundly, his mouth soft and pliant against Richie's.</p><p>"Tastes weird," Eddie mumbles and strokes Richie's hair with gentle fingers.</p><p>"Tastes like dick," says Richie and grins. "I would say sorry but it's your dick, so."</p><p>"Mhm, it is." Eddie presses a kiss to his jaw and reaches down to squeeze Richie's erection through his sweatpants.</p><p>"Shit, Eds," Richie hisses, bucking helplessly against him. "Fuck."</p><p>"You wanna get back down there?" Eddie asks, his voice lower than expected. "And then I'll get you off."</p><p>"Yes, yes, please," Richie says quickly, already scrambling to get back on his knees. He presses one last kiss to the side of Eddie's mouth and then settles back in between his thighs, nosing along the silky, hot skin of his cock, still wet from Richie's saliva.</p><p>He looks up at Eddie with a dopey smile, feeling indescribably horny and even more in love, and then takes him back into his mouth and cups his balls with one hand, working them gently. He gets his hands on Eddie's ass and urges him up, pulls back just to say, "You can fuck my mouth, if you want," at which point Eddie goes so red Richie thinks he might burst a blood vessel but he does cant his hips so his dick hits the back of Richie's throat, again and again.</p><p>He moans, "Holy shit, I'm— Richie, fuck, I'm gonna—" and Richie hums around him, hollows his cheeks and takes him in all the way so when Eddie comes with an aborted shout he barely tastes it at all, it goes straight down his throat.</p><p>He licks him through the aftershocks until he's twitching and over-sensitive, gasping, "Stop, Rich," and then he pulls off and wipes the spit off his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>"Holy fucking shit," Eddie says and gazes down at him with half-lidded eyes, looking like the textbook definition of 'fucked'.</p><p>"Good?" Richie asks, trying not to feel too smug about it.</p><p>And Eddie says, "Yes, obviously, you're fucking perfect," which is incredibly unfair because it plays right into Richie's stupid praise kink and makes him feel hot all over, suddenly very aware of his dick throbbing in his pants, painfully hard.</p><p>He sits back on his heels and looks up at Eddie, breathing heavily, unsure of how to proceed. Eddie solves that problem for him by leaning forwards and wrapping a hand around his nape to pull him in for a kiss. It's short and hot, Eddie's tongue licking behind his teeth, and then he pulls back just enough to say, "Come up here, let me take care of you."</p><p>Richie exhales shakily, desperately turned on, and when he gets up his legs wobble.</p><p>"Get those pants off," Eddie says and the bossy tone does something complicated to Richie's insides. He obliges and takes his sweatpants off as gracefully as possible, which is to say not very gracefully at all.</p><p>Eddie reaches out and tugs at the waistband of his boxers, says, "These too."</p><p>Richie swallows thickly, suddenly feeling a lot less smug than he had a minute ago. He nearly trips over his feet taking off his pineapple-patterned boxers and then hovers awkwardly by the couch with his dick out for the whole world (or Eddie, in this case) to see.</p><p>But Eddie doesn't leave him hanging (hah) for very long; he shifts to lie flat on his back with his head propped up on a couch cushion and he takes Richie by the hand to pull him down onto the couch. Richie covers him with his whole body, legs on either side of him, and he worries idly that he might crush him with the weight but Eddie makes a pleased little noise and strokes his sweaty back.</p><p>"How do you want it, baby?" Eddie asks, his voice quiet against Richie's neck.</p><p>"I, uh, I really don't mind, I'll take anything," he says and his face burns with the truth of that statement. </p><p>"But how do you <em> want it, </em>really?"</p><p>Richie pushes himself up onto his arms, hands heavy with his weight on the couch next to Eddie's head, and he drops a kiss on Eddie's cheekbone. "This is real embarrassing, but I would rather you just do whatever you want," he tells him.</p><p>Eddie runs his palms up and down Richie's side and furrows his brows. "Is that like, a kink?"</p><p>Richie laughs, a low rumble in his chest. "I wouldn't go that far but it sure is something."</p><p>"Hm," Eddie hums and pushes lightly against his sternum to get him to sit up.</p><p>Like this, Richie is straddling Eddie's hips and has a perfect view of his chest, the taut muscles of his stomach and the hollow of his throat shining with sweat. The position also means that his dick is lying against Eddie's stomach, the purple-red of it a stark contrast against the tan of Eddie's skin.</p><p>"Fuck, Richie, you look so good," Eddie breathes and wraps his hand around him, rubbing his thumb over the slit so he spreads precum across the head.</p><p>Richie tips his head back and moans, scrambling for purchase and finding it on the back of the sofa. "God, fuck," he hisses and rolls his hips forward for some friction.</p><p>Eddie jacks him off with firm, precise movements, slow at first but getting gradually faster.</p><p>"You like that, baby?" he asks and Richie would find it porno-cheesy, if not for the slight edge to his voice that suggests he is genuinely concerned that it's bad.</p><p>Richie looks down at him and says, breathlessly, "Yeah, feels fucking amazing."</p><p>Eddie bites his lip with a shy tilt of the head and says, "Want you to come on my chest."</p><p>Richie's breath hitches. "Yeah?"</p><p>"Yeah, want you to mess me up."</p><p>"Jesus fucking Christ, you can't say shit like that," Richie groans and reaches out to grasp Eddie's jaw, his thumb resting on his lower lip. "You make me feel crazy."</p><p>Eddie grins up at him and licks the pad of his thumb, then takes it into his mouth. A tight heat pools low in Richie's stomach as Eddie sucks on his finger, his tongue curling around the knuckle, and the fast rhythm of Eddie's hand on his dick makes him pant. </p><p>"'m not gonna last much longer," he gasps.</p><p>Eddie nods and lets Richie's thumb slide out of his mouth to say, "Yeah, Rich, want you to come, want you to feel good." </p><p>Richie whines and arches his back, pressure building. He bucks his hips once, twice, and then Eddie twists his wrist just so and he comes in hot spurts across Eddie's chest, on his pecs and the jagged scar, moaning his name in a shuddering exhale.</p><p>Eddie doesn't stop until Richie is twitching and spent, and then he takes him by the shoulders and pulls him down again. Richie collapses onto his chest with a grunt, loose-limbed and warm.</p><p>"Ew, gross," Eddie laughs, threading his fingers through Richie's sweaty hair. "It seemed hot at the time but now I'm regretting the jizz on my chest."</p><p>Richie laughs, too. He can feel it wet between them and it really is a little gross, but not gross enough to make him want to move for at least another hour, or until Eddie makes him get up.</p><p>"Your fault," he says into the crook of Eddie's neck. "You suggested it. I seem to remember something about wanting me to mess you up?”</p><p>"Yeah," Eddie hums. "I did say that, didn't I?"</p><p>Richie presses a kiss against Eddie's throat and breathes in the scent of him, of sweat and sex. He feels lightheaded and fuzzy, like someone has wrapped him in wool. "So, on a scale of 1 to 10—"</p><p>"I'm not rating our fucking sex life, dude," Eddie snaps and Richie giggles. Then, a moment later, "But if I did it would be a ten."</p><p>"Same," Richie sighs happily. "Maybe even an eleven."</p><p>"That's not how scales work."</p><p>"Ohh, love it when you talk math at me."</p><p>Eddie snorts. "That's not math, just common sense."</p><p>"Love it when you talk common sense at me," Richie says. "Very sexy of you."</p><p>"Yeah, I'm sure." Eddie presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Now can we please shower? I think it's <em> drying </em>and it’s making me want to die."</p><p> </p><p>“We should go on a date.”</p><p>Eddie looks up from the tour guide he was only half paying attention anyways and arches one eyebrow.</p><p>“Is this not a date?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.</p><p>They’re on a boat on the Canal Saint-Martin in Paris, waiting for the lock to open out onto the Seine. Despite the heavy cloud cover the air is warm and it thrums with the threat of rain, a stagnant humidity. There was a thunderstorm last night — they watched it from the floor-length window in their suite at Le Mathurin, curled up on a layer of blankets and pillows on the floor — and the air still smells of summer rain.</p><p>“I mean, it’s not explicitly a date,” Richie says.</p><p>“But we’re doing something together.”</p><p>“That is the least romantic definition of ‘date’ I’ve ever fucking heard.”</p><p>Eddie frowns at him, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, asshole. Poor Eddie doesn’t know how romance works, that’s hilarious!”</p><p>“Dude,” Richie says and holds his hands up. “Retract the claws, I’m just saying! I want to woo you.” </p><p>The engine starts up again as the lock gates open, rumbling beneath them, and all around them people take out their cameras to take blurry, low-res pictures of the first vaguely interesting thing to happen in fifteen minutes.</p><p>“Woo me? What is this, the 19th century?” Eddie says and crosses his arms in front of his chest. His frown has evened out marginally but he still looks a little unhappy.</p><p>“Eddie, my love, my darling, light of my life,” Richie starts and does the very subtle, first-date move of stretching with a dramatic yawn and casually draping his over the backrest of Eddie’s uncomfortable metal seat. He leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Do you think that romance is a Victorian concept?” </p><p>“I can be romantic,” Eddie huffs and he angles himself towards him, his hand coming to rest on Richie’s thigh. “But you don’t have to ‘woo’ me. I am already wooed.”</p><p>Richie noses along his cheek and murmurs,“Hm, you are? You don’t wanna play hard to get?”</p><p>“Bit late for that,” Eddie says dryly. “And we have been on dates.”</p><p>Richie pulls back a little and grins at him dopily. “By your definition of the word, sure.”</p><p>“What about yesterday?” Eddie asks. “We went for dinner! You didn’t fucking bother to dress up but I did, I wore my nice sweater and I cleaned my shoes for it. I even used mouthwash before so everything tasted kind of shit.”</p><p>Richie imagines him standing in the massive, Turkish marble-walled bathroom of their hotel suite and swishing Listerine Freshburst around his mouth and then shining his shoes to, what, impress Richie? So he would feel confident kissing him? The very idea makes him feel a little weak in the knees, and he isn’t even standing up, knocked over by how much he loves him. </p><p>“Oh my god, I did think you tasted particularly minty,” he says. “I thought it was just dinner! I would have dressed up nice for you!”</p><p>Eddie raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re physically capable of dressing up nice.”</p><p>The boat starts moving with a lurch, slowly making its way out of the lock.</p><p>“I’ve worn suits,” Richie informs him. “On multiple occasions. I am a man who wears suits.”</p><p>“Were they tailored?”</p><p>“Uh, no.”</p><p>“Doesn’t count as dressing up nice, then,” Eddie says and squeezes his thigh.</p><p>“What, but a sweater does?”</p><p>“It’s a very nice sweater.”</p><p>Richie tilts his head, considering. Then he shrugs. “Alright, I’ll give you that one. It is one sexy sweater.”</p><p>“Yeah, exactly,” Eddie hums with a satisfied little smile.</p><p>The narrow canal opens out onto the Seine with a view of Notre-Dame, imposing even from the distance. Richie spares it all a brief glance but finds himself drawn back to Eddie, the stark lines of his face, and finds his eyes fixed, inexplicably, on Richie. They stare at each other, a moment of stillness amongst dozens of people.</p><p>“I can’t believe you like me,” Richie says quietly.</p><p>Eddie’s face does something complicated, an emotion somewhere between exasperation and embarrassment, and he elbows him in the side. “Of course I fucking like you,” he snaps. “You’re the best person I know.”</p><p>Richie gapes at him. “You can’t just say shit like that, shit, can I— Eds, no one is looking, can I kiss you?”</p><p>“Whatever, let them look,” Eddie says easily and pulls him in by the collar, leans his forehead against Richie’s. “City of love, right?”</p><p>Richie laughs, and no one looks when he kisses him. </p><p> </p><p>Just days before their flight home, Richie takes the metro from Madeleine to La Motte-Picquet one evening, dressed in his best clothes — black slacks and a blazer over his cleanest, least garish shirt, a dark floral pattern. He has with him a picnic blanket, a candle in a jar, and a bottle of rosé. With sweaty palms he tries to read some article that Bill sent in the group chat, another conspiracy about aliens or some shit, he’s genuinely not sure because he only takes in every other sentence. </p><p>He finds a Monoprix around the corner from the metro station and buys a wheel of <em> Brie de Meaux </em>, a punnet of heirloom tomatoes, some raspberries, a saucisson, a small jar of olive tapenade, and a bag of gummy bears which he didn’t plan on getting but got roped into by the toddler in charge of his impulse control. On his way to his destination he dips into a small bakery and buys two baguettes and a spinach and cheese quiche, and he rolls up to the park with way too much food for two people. It's busy, as is to be expected in front of the Eiffel Tower on a warm summer's evening, and so wanders around in search of a spot further down that is at least a little bit secluded but still has a good view.</p><p>He sets up camp to the right of the tower, closer to the Seine, where the nearest people are more than ten feet away. He tries to arrange the food in a somewhat artful way and he fumbles when lighting the candle and burns his thumb, places it in the middle and wishes he had bought flowers of some sort to make the spread look a little more romantic. The candle is a good start but maybe some fairy lights — no. This is fine. Eddie isn't going to yell at him for not buying a bouquet of red roses. Eddie thinks that romance is outdated, anyways.</p><p>Richie wipes his sweaty palms on his nice trousers and tries to find a comfortable position on the blanket. He goes from cross-legged to kneeling and back to cross-legged four times within as many minutes, checks his phone every time he thinks he feels it vibrate but it's really just because he moved. He considers lighting up a cigarette but Eddie would probably scrunch up his nose in a cute but disapproving way if he tasted smoke on his tongue. Instead, he nervously plucks bits of grass out of the ground to busy his hands.</p><p>Despite the fact he literally kissed him goodbye at the hotel an hour ago, he worries about Eddie standing him up. He knows it's irrational but that has never stopped him from worrying about something before and, well. This is technically their first date, isn't it? Regardless of Eddie's definition of the word, this is the first time Richie has asked him with clearly defined parameters.</p><p>He feels like it's 1991 and he is waiting for Eddie at the Aladdin to watch <em> Terminator 2. </em> Feels just as sweaty and hormonal as he would have back then, and for a moment the air smells like buttery popcorn and damp — he wonders hysterically if the incessant mold problem in all Derry buildings, from the arcade to the school classrooms, had something to do with Pennywise. But here, in 2017, the air smells pleasantly like grass and the ghost of cigarette smoke wafting over from a group of people to his left.</p><p>That time, his phone does vibrate. Eddie's name flashes across the screen. He nearly drops it in his hurry to accept the call. </p><p>"Hey," he squeaks.</p><p>"Uh, hey," Eddie says on the other end of the line. "You alright?"</p><p>Richie clears his throat. "Yeah, fine, what's up?"</p><p>"I'm here," Eddie says and Richie's heart skips a beat. "But can't see you. Why the fuck are there so many people?"</p><p>"Eddie, it's August in Paris. Where else would they be?"</p><p>"What use is your sell-out comedy money if you can’t pay them to stay home?" Eddie grumbles. "So where are you?"  </p><p>Richie gets to his feet to have a better view of the area. "If you've got your back to the tower I should be on your left," he says. "There's a few trees and I'm in between them."</p><p>"That is so unhelpful. Can you wave or something? You're like seven foot tall, I should see you."</p><p>Richie does wave, and he jumps up and down for good measure. "Alright, keep an eye out for a skipping Gonzo."</p><p>"I see you," Eddie says then and he sounds so terribly fond.</p><p>Richie stops jumping. "Oh, I can't see you." </p><p>"You will," Eddie says and hangs up.</p><p>Richie laughs. Eddie probably didn't mean for it to sound like a threat, and somehow that makes it even funnier. </p><p>By the time Eddie makes good on his promise, Richie is standing awkwardly by the picnic blanket with his arms crossed over his chest, wishing for something to lean against. A wall, maybe, or a conveniently placed tree. It's harder to look pathetically nervous when leaning.</p><p>To add insult to injury, Eddie looks fucking amazing. His hair is tousled, moussed instead of gelled, and Richie thinks that it might look effortless if not for the fact that he knows Eddie will have spent like twenty minutes tugging individual strands of hair into the right place. He’s wearing a wine red button down tucked into dark jeans, the top three buttons undone to show the white t-shirt underneath, and when they make eye contact across the expanse of grass between them he grins sharply.</p><p>Richie’s stomach swoops. He thinks he must look like an idiot, like surely anyone who looks at them would think Eddie’s been catfished, but he lets himself live in a moment of <em> oh shit, that’s my man. </em>He beams at Eddie and bounces on the balls of his feet, uncertain if running up to scoop him into his arms would be a little much.</p><p>Before he can make up his mind about it, Eddie is in front of him, bright-eyed and handsome.</p><p>Richie sticks his hand out for him. “I’m Richie, nice to meet you.”</p><p>Eddie snorts but takes his hand and shakes it firmly. “Are we on a fucking blind date? In Paris?”</p><p>“Yeah, I go all out for pretty boys.” Richie grins. “Would you like to take a seat?”</p><p>“I’m forty years old,” Eddie says dryly and sits down cross-legged on the blanket.</p><p>Richie joins him and chirps, “But still so pretty! Wine?”</p><p>It’s easier if he pretends that this is some sort of role play. Not the sexual kind, but rather the improv club at college kind. He relaxes marginally into the illusion of it.</p><p>“Sure,” Eddie says with a wry smile. “Did you bring a glass?”</p><p>“Uh,” Richie looks around although he already knows the answer is no, “Nah.”</p><p>“Mhm, so you’ll fly me to Paris but you’re going to make me drink from the bottle?”</p><p>Richie unscrews the cap of the wine bottle and passes it to Eddie. “Yeah, sorry. I blew my glass budget on the flights.”</p><p>Eddie’s laugh is warm and it curls around him like a thread. </p><p>While the air grows colder around them, losing some of the summer heat as the sun goes down, they eat baguette with cheese and saucisson, toss raspberries at each other’s mouths and count each on-target throw a victory, all the while the wax inside the candle melts down, down, and Richie melts with it into loose-limbed happiness.</p><p>At nine o’clock on the hour the Eiffel Tower lights up, illuminated by hundreds of spotlights, and Richie takes a nervous breath and reaches out to take Eddie’s hand.</p><p>“Hey,” he says softly, a slight wobble to his voice.</p><p>Eddie, who had been staring up at the golden tower, looks at him and turns his hand over to interlace their fingers. </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>Richie clears his throat. “So you know how we’ve been through a lot together? And how I am in love with you?”</p><p>Eddie blinks. “Are you... dying?”</p><p>“Dude, what! No!”</p><p>“Alright, well, can you start again and try to sound less like you’re about to tell me you have four months left to live?”</p><p>“Jesus, fine! Okay,” Richie laughs nervously. “So: I love you.”</p><p>Eddie nods slowly and says, “Yeah.”</p><p>“And I think you’re the coolest motherfucker on this planet.”</p><p>Eddie grins. “Yes.”</p><p>“Would you— Do you want to, uh,” he chokes on it, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath and scrunches up his face in embarrassment. “Wanna be my boyfriend?”</p><p>There’s a beat of silence that errs on the side of too long, and Richie is already halfway through the five stages of grief when Eddie says, “I’m forty years old.”</p><p>Richie frowns. “Yes, you are.”</p><p>“I don’t know how to be anyone’s <em> boyfriend </em>. Y'know, because I’m not a teenager.”</p><p>“Oh my god, can we not get hung up on the terminology, you persnickety little man?” Richie groans. “I feel like I’m having a heart attack.”</p><p>“Don’t even joke about that shit, dude, your heart is probably fucked because of the coke and—”</p><p>“Eddie,” Richie says, cutting him off. “Please.” </p><p>They look at each other, a moment of stillness, and then Eddie says, “Yes.”</p><p>“Yes?” Richie breathes.</p><p>“Yes, of course. I’ll be your anything.”</p><p>Richie shakes with joy, his heart in his throat, and he grasps Eddie’s stupid, beautiful face with one hand and pulls him in for a kiss.</p><p>“I love you, holy shit,” he whispers against his mouth, and he feels Eddie’s smile against his.</p><p>“I know, sweetheart, me too.” </p><p>And all that taut rubber band anxiety pent up in Richie’s chest bleeds away, like Eddie drains it from him. </p><p>They pack up the remnants of their picnic — heaps of leftovers as expected, Richie never did know when to stop — and he takes Eddie to <em> Le Duc des Lombards </em> for a jazz show. On the way there they stand pressed together on the metro, Eddie’s face tucked into Richie’s chest and his arms around Richie’s waist, and when Richie takes his hand on the way out of the station Eddie gets honest-to-god shy about it, like Richie’s clammy hand is something to get giddy about. </p><p>At the club Eddie drinks both of their complementary champagne flutes while Richie has the fanciest mocktail on the menu. Eddie leans in close to tell him tidbits about each piece performed, explains which sections are referencing other songs, and Richie is just happy to have him close, to feel his breath hot on his cheek. In the low light of the room, with all eyes on the stage, Richie kisses Eddie’s knuckles, the pad of his thumb, whispers <em> I love you </em> into the palm of his hand. </p><p>That night Eddie fingers him until he sees stars on their super king-size hotel bed, and afterwards Richie pushes him into the mattress and goes down on him so long that his jaw is aching and his neck develops a crick. In the darkness, Richie lays bare everything that he is, puts forth each ugly, jagged piece like an offering to the gods, and Eddie listens, and Eddie loves him, he does. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! I will post an epilogue in the next few weeks so keep an eye out for that. </p><p>This is the longest thing I've ever written and it's kept me sane during (professional email voice) 'these strange and difficult times'. I hope you guys have enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! </p><p>Come hang out with me on twitter at <a href="twitter.com/reesefinchs">@reesefinchs</a></p><p> </p><p>Details about the drug-related death CW:<br/>Richie thinks about the fact that he might one day die from smoking or from cocaine abuse. There are also two throwaway comments about cocaine-related heart attacks. It's not graphic, but I understand this might be an issue for some people! </p><p>If you want to avoid this, skip the paragraph that comes after this:<br/>"If Eddie looked away, even for a moment, Richie was already thinking of ways to get him to look back. Maybe it’s an addiction — he chases Eddie the way he chases the dragon."</p><p>For the throwaway comments, skip the bit immediately following each joke Richie makes about having a heart attack (this happens twice).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Richie and Eddie talk — to other people and to each other.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter specific content warnings:<br/>Mentions of past canon-typical abuse. Discussions of trauma. Mentions of alcoholism.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>August </b>
</p><p>At 4:15pm on the 26th of August, an Alaska Airlines employee calls out Richie Tozier on the tannoy and no one shows up. The flight departs without him, his just one of many empty seats that day, to the great disappointment of a young flight attendant who was hoping to catch a glimpse of the man after not only his public breakdown, but his public coming out a year later.  While the flight attendant gossips with her colleagues, Richie Tozier presses his mouth to the sharp line of Eddie Kaspbrak's collarbone, in the sun-speckled living room of a Jackson Heights apartment.</p><p>Richie stays in New York for three weeks, fielding calls left and right, avoiding Twitter and Instagram and the world, and making increasingly flimsy excuses for why he cannot go home yet. He helps Eddie move his things back into the apartment, poking his head into every box and every bag, cherishing the pieces of Eddie that he finds there. These are the things he was looking for when he first came here in June — stacks of books that he already knows Eddie reads, DVDs that they've talked about, photographs of Eddie and Myra that Richie has long since seen in the shape of his mouth, in the tense line of his shoulders when he talks about her.</p><p>Eddie lets him stay, no questions asked, and from the way he clings to him at night, and sometimes in the day, Richie gathers that it isn't just that he doesn't want to leave — Eddie doesn't want to let him. He goes back to work after a week, having already pushed his scheduled return back by four days, and Richie watches him get dressed in the pink light of dawn, watches him disappear into corporate chic, more product in his hair that day than in the last month combined. He sees it so clearly that morning, their life together. When Eddie kisses him goodbye it feels like a promise he intends to keep — <em> I will come back to you, for as long as you want me to. </em> As Richie dozes under Eddie's Egyptian cotton sheets, he thinks the word <em> husband </em>and he laughs, a sleepy rumble, wonders if you can call it a U-haul if you've known him for thirty years. </p><p>Monday to Friday from 8am until 4pm, Eddie sits in his sixth floor office, begrudgingly wearing whatever tie Richie picked out for him that day, and Richie lounges around the apartment or wanders the streets of New York, riding the subway and getting off at whichever stop sounds like it could be interesting. The news talk of a heatwave but they survived Budapest, so this can't get him down. When Eddie comes home Richie loosens his tie for him and peels him out of his suit jacket, and then he presses him against the nearest wall, or door, or counter, and kisses him senseless. He thought Eddie might get sick of it after a few days, might ask him for a moment to fucking breathe, Rich, <em> Christ </em>, but he never does, and on the Friday before Richie flies home Eddie doesn't even wait for him to make it off the couch before he jumps him, his tie already hanging loose around his neck.</p><p>"Text me as soon as you land," Eddie tells him on Sunday, standing by his car in the short term parking spot outside Newark Airport, still frazzled from the forty minute drive that should have taken an hour.</p><p>"You bet," Richie says and drags his duffle bag out of the trunk of the car. He sets it down on the floor and adjusts the straps of his ratty backpack. "I'll be blowing up your phone every chance I get, baby. Wouldn't want you to get lonely."</p><p>"Fuck off." The sentiment is softened somewhat by the way he steps into Richie's space and takes his face into his hands, thumbs resting on his cheekbones. "You sure you don't want to stay?"</p><p>Richie turns his head to press his lips to Eddie's palm. "I want to, Eds," he mumbles against his skin. "Believe me, if I could call up Big Rabbi and have the Rosh Hashana dates changed I would have done it already."</p><p>Eddie slides his hand to cup the back of Richie's head and pulls him in for a kiss. It is chaste, practically Victorian, but it still lights up his insights like a match to petrol. Richie rests his forehead against Eddie's and wraps both arms around him, pulling him as close as physically possible.</p><p>"This fucking sucks," Eddie says.</p><p>Richie just nods and squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p>"Oh, bro, don't fucking cry. We're not making a scene at Newark fucking Airport."</p><p>Richie laughs wetly. "But any other airport would be fine?" </p><p>"LaGuardia is the best for crying," Eddie tells him and runs his hands up and down Richie's back. "JFK is fine but you might get shouted at for it."</p><p>"Should've gone to LaGuardia, I guess."</p><p>"You would've missed your flight."</p><p>Richie pulls back to wipe at his eyes, pushing his glasses up into his hair. "Good," he says. "I could still miss my flight now."</p><p>"I don't want your sister to hate me so: No, you can't."</p><p>"Wouldn't be your fault. I'll take the fall for you."</p><p>Eddie laughs and tugs at Richie's wrists gently to bring his hands down from his face. "Just kiss me goodbye, Tozier."</p><p>Richie shakes his head and says, petulantly, "Don't wanna."</p><p>"I'm giving you five minutes before I get into the car and leave."</p><p>"That makes you a terrible boyfriend."</p><p>Richie says the word every chance he gets, as if to convince himself it's real, and Eddie rolls his eyes every time, calls him 'partner' instead, and 'lover' when he wants to make Richie laugh. Three weeks since Paris and Richie still can't quite wrap his head around it, but every <em> I love you </em>settles warm and reassuring into his bones, so one day he might.</p><p>"No, it makes me a sensible adult," Eddie says.</p><p>Richie slides his glasses back down so he can see him clearly. "Oh, baby, you know I hate it when you're sensible," he says and wraps him into another hug.</p><p>"One of us has to be," Eddie says snippily. </p><p>He melts into the embrace, nuzzles against him and leaves warm kisses along Richie's throat, slides his hand underneath Richie's shirt and feels the sweaty skin of his back. It must be disgusting but Eddie stays there anyways, a testament to his love, or maybe his bravery. </p><p>"I love you," Richie says against Eddie's temple. "I'll miss you."</p><p>Eddie hums, "I love you, too," and squeezes him tightly. "Now make out with me against this car so I have something to think about tonight." </p><p>“Oh, you slag,” Richie gasps but Eddie doesn't need to ask twice. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>September </b>
</p><p>Leon loves Los Angeles, Chris says it's the worst city that she's ever visited. She picks fights with everyone from the head chef at <em> La Pargoletta </em> about the definition of medium rare, to the woman who cuts her off in the queue for the public toilets at Venice Beach, she complains about the food and the traffic and the state of public transport, tells him he ought to move to Austin, or back to Chicago, or maybe New York if that's where his heart (read: Eddie) takes him, and Richie just laughs at her. </p><p>She says Mike grew into an incredible man and Richie should try to be a bit more like him, while Bill peaked at thirteen and has lost his charm since. When she tries to invite Mike to Austin but implies that Bill should stay home Richie has to tell her to stop being a bitch, although Bill has something of a Hollywood thick skin and laughs it off.</p><p>It's strange how quickly they fall back into step with each other. Leon is terribly easy to please, bright-eyed and impressed by the glitz of Hollywood life, the kid wants to be an actor although he has always been a scientist at heart, and Chris privately warns Richie that if he encourages the acting shit any more she will hunt him for sport.</p><p>"It wasn't just Eddie," he tells her the night before their flight home.</p><p>It's nearly 2am and they are stretched out on the couch, their heads on opposite ends and their legs tangled in the middle. The TV is playing some video of a Chinese lady cooking with her dog, something Chris put on because she thought it sounded funny, but neither of them are paying much attention.</p><p>Leon has long since gone to bed, moaning about the early start tomorrow, but Chris has always thrived on as few hours of REM sleep as she could possibly get away with. She is somehow both a night owl and an early-riser, a walking contradiction. Richie thinks that she worries what she might miss if she sleeps. He should tell Eddie about this, find out what sleep-deprivation related diseases might befall her if she doesn't start adding a nap to her schedule every now and then.</p><p>"Hm?" she asks, delayed. She turns her head to look at him. "Whazzat?"</p><p>"It wasn't just Eddie," Richie repeats. "He didn't fix me."</p><p>"Not following, Tozier."</p><p>"It's just, uh, I put some work in, too. And I thought— I thought, you know what? I can't do this forever. I stopped drinking before I even knew he loved me." Richie stops, then quietly adds, "I did that."</p><p>Chris smiles sardonically. "I didn't think Eddie's magic dick cured you, Rich."</p><p>He snorts. "Maybe not his magic dick, but I worry people think it was the power of gay love that cured me."</p><p>Chris mimes gagging.</p><p>"Don't be fucking homophobic."</p><p>"I'm being love-phobic. Nothing to do with it being gay or straight."</p><p>Richie nudges her calf with his toes. "You're so jaded. Lighten up."</p><p>"Alright, that's enough," Chris says, nudging him back harder. More of a kick than a nudge. "Don't call me jaded, you cynical fuck. Do you get any privacy in that glass house?"</p><p>Richie grins at her. "See, I used to be cynical, but then I started having sex with Eddie Kaspbrak."</p><p>"Thought his magic dick didn't fix you?" she asks.</p><p>"It didn't cure my alcoholism but it did make me an optimist," Richie says.</p><p>"A comedian and an optimist? Damn, little dude, pick a struggle."</p><p>Richie laughs, too loud in the quiet room. On the TV, the video ends and another one from the same channel starts playing automatically. He considers changing it but nothing comes to mind, so he lets the intro jingle along.</p><p>"Why don't you come for Hanukkah?" Chris asks after a moment of companionable silence. "You and Eddie."</p><p>Starburst warmth inside of his chest, Richie breathes out shakily. "Yeah? Me and Eddie?"</p><p>"Would love to see him again. He was always such a feral thing."</p><p>"He still is," Richie says, feeling deeply fond.</p><p>"It's not like we don't have the space," Chris continues. "I'll do up the spare room. I’ve been looking for an excuse to clean it out."</p><p>She seems nervous, Richie thinks. It is an unfamiliar look on her.</p><p>"You don't have to convince me," he says. "I'll be there. Let me speak to Eddie, see if he has any plans, and then we can look into flights. Is it early December this year?"</p><p>Chris nods. "Starts on the 2nd."</p><p>He squeezes her ankle. "We'll make it work. I'll bring some holiday cheer into your life, seems like you need it"</p><p>"Oh, sure. So do you think Eddie can cure me, too?"</p><p>Richie gasps. "Are you trying to fuck my man? Jolene!"</p><p>"You can't tell me his dick is magic and expect me not to try, pal," she says with a shit-eating grin. "But no. I'm busy, got my own shit going on."</p><p>He turns that over in his head for a moment. Then he asks, "Are you seeing someone?"</p><p>"I don't kiss and tell," she says and reaches for the remote.</p><p>"Dude, you're <em> dating? </em>And you're not even going to tell me about it?"</p><p>She looks him dead in the eyes and turns the volume up until the speakers on the TV crackle with it. With a yell, he throws himself at her to wrestle the remote out of her hands. He manages to hit the mute button amidst the chaos.</p><p>"Who is he? Is he good enough for your?" he asks, hovering over her, the fight for the remote at an uneasy standstill.</p><p>"No one is," she says and shoves him away. "But I'd say she comes close."</p><p>
  <em> "She?!" </em>
</p><p>Chris winks at him and unmutes the TV.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>October</b>
</p><p>There is an overwhelming intimacy to laying naked in bed together without even having sex, and Richie is a big fan. He is a big fan, too, of Eddie's bare skin, the tickle of his hair against Richie's jaw, their intertwined fingers. Outside, an icy wind howls and heavy rain is whipping against the windows but Eddie's apartment is warm, the radiators emanating a gentle glow. </p><p>Eddie is talking about something, his boss and some contract issue, and Richie is paying attention but he doesn't have the frame of reference that Eddie clearly thinks he does so he only understands about a third of it. But it's fine, really, because he likes to listen to the sound of his voice and Eddie doesn't expect him to contribute much.</p><p>"Hey, baby," Richie says when there is a lull in the story, what could be the end of it but might just be Eddie gathering his thoughts. "Remember Berlin?"</p><p>Eddie's laugh is a puff of warm air against Richie's neck. "Which part?" </p><p>"The part where you got so drunk you couldn't walk."</p><p>There's a tense moment in which Eddie clearly tries to decide if talking about being drunk is going to be a threat to Richie's sobriety, as he always does. A reflexive pause that used to feel patronising but now he sees it for what it is — just one of the little ways in which Eddie cares about him, wants to look out for him.</p><p>"Yes, I remember," Eddie says finally and he presses a kiss to Richie's throat.</p><p>"Oh, do you? We never talked about that," he hums.</p><p>"You mean the part where I was trying to get you to suck my dick or...?"</p><p>Richie laughs, sharp and high-pitched, taken by surprise.</p><p>"So that <em> was </em>what you were doing?" he asks, amused.</p><p>Eddie pulls back and props himself up on one elbow next to Richie. He looks tired and soft, a warm presence all along his side. He has lost most of his summer tan, and his freckles have faded into almost nothingness, but he never quite went back to the way he looked back in June. Something about him has changed, in the same way that Richie must have changed, too. A loosening of limbs, a softening of the sharp lines of his face.</p><p>"Yes," Eddie says, smiling in that playful way he sometimes does, almost coy. It's painfully attractive. "The only reason I agreed to do shots in the first place was because I wanted to kiss you." </p><p>Richie stares at him. <em> "What? </em>All the way back in Berlin?"</p><p>"Bro," Eddie says with an unimpressed lift of his eyebrow. "Richie. Sweetheart. You're an idiot."</p><p>"Hm, love it when you smooth talk me."</p><p>Eddie pulls Richie's hand close to his face and kisses his knuckles. "Yes, all the way back in Berlin," he says. "Do you think I fell in love with you in Europe?"</p><p>"Aw, you're in love with me?" Richie traces the outline of Eddie's ribs with his free hand, marvelling at the warmth of his skin. "That is so embarrassing for you.”</p><p>"Shut the fuck up."</p><p>"Make me."</p><p>"I'm going to kiss you now, but not because you said that," Eddie tells him. "That would be too cheesy. Don't try it again."</p><p>"Sure," Richie nods, and when Eddie leans down he tilts his head up eagerly to meet him. It's unhurried and languid, just a gentle press of lips at first but eventually Eddie licks into his mouth and Richie is more than happy to let him.</p><p>After a few minutes Richie gently pushes Eddie back by the shoulder so he can look at him. "Wait, so you didn't?"</p><p>Eddie blinks at him, a little dazed. It makes Richie feel giddy to know that he did that, just by kissing him.</p><p>"Huh?"</p><p>Richie grins at him and runs his fingers through Eddie's hair, soft and free of product after his shower earlier. "You didn't fall in love with me in Europe?"</p><p>"I've already told you this," says Eddie.</p><p>"Did you?"</p><p>"I said, and I think this is almost verbatim, 'I've been in love with you since I knew what that meant'."</p><p>"Verbatim," Richie sighs. "Love it when you use big words."</p><p>Eddie laughs, then, a sharp cut through the quiet night. He says, "Asshole," and nestles back into the crook of Richie's neck. And then, "I think before the summer it was a passive kind of love. It had nowhere to go because you wouldn't fucking speak to me."</p><p>"Sorry," Richie says out of habit, but they've spoken about it enough that he knows he doesn't need to. </p><p>"Yeah, whatever." Eddie trails his fingers down Richie's chest, through the dark hair there. "It was passive, sure, but it's always been there. And then we spent three months together and I went kind of crazy."</p><p>"I find it hard to believe," Richie admits. "I don't have the brain capacity to process that information so it just passes right through. Like... like shit passing—"</p><p>"If you take that bowel movement metaphor any further I'm kicking you out," Eddie warns. "You're so gross."</p><p>"Me? Gross?" Richie gasps and then, "How very dare you, Mr Kaspbrak. On this rueful day, the eve of my husband's passing?"</p><p>Eddie slaps his chest lightly. "Not the suspicious Victorian widow, Rich, please."</p><p>"But you love the suspicious Victorian widow, Eds," Richie whines.</p><p>"There's a time and a place." With a put out sigh, Richie puts the back of his hand to his forehead. "What time if not now? What place if not here?"</p><p>"Any other time, and anywhere but our metaphorical marriage bed," Eddie says.</p><p>"Hm, are you proposing?" Richie runs his fingertips along Eddie's back, tracing the ridges of his spine and the jagged shape of his scar. </p><p>There's a pause too long to be considered anything but anxious. "I said metaphorical."</p><p>"Relax, baby, I'm joking," Richie says and kisses the top of Eddie's head. "You've only been divorced for six months. Let's give it a few years until the next one."</p><p>Eddie pinches his side. "Until the next <em> divorce? </em>Why would we get divorced, asshole?"</p><p>"For the drama."</p><p>"I'm not marrying you just to get divorced," Eddie huffs. "One divorce per lifetime is enough, I think.”</p><p>Richie knows he is pushing his luck, but he can't help asking, "Oh, so you are marrying me?"</p><p>He expects a joke, or another tense silence, but Eddie says, “Yes, if you want. Ask me again in a few months. Do not ask me anywhere with less than two Michelin stars.” </p><p>For a moment Richie just stares down at the top of Eddie’s head, his eyes comically wide. Then he says, “Eds?” </p><p>Eddie presses a kiss against his collarbone. “Yes.” </p><p>An excited whoop, and then he gleefully asks, "Richie Kaspbrak? Eddie Tozier?” </p><p>"That's not how it works," Eddie says, his voice muffled against Richie's skin. "We could double-barrel it."</p><p>"Tozier-Kaspbrak. Kaspbrak-Tozier?” Richie lets that roll off his tongue.</p><p>Eddie says, "Tozier-Kaspbrak, I think." </p><p>Richie finds no space for cynicism as he wraps both arms around Eddie and squeezes him to his chest.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>December</b>
</p><p>Eddie and Chris get on like a house on fire. This comes as a surprise to absolutely no one but Eddie who somehow expected her to hate him out of some sort of sisterly sense of protectiveness. They both feed off each other's deranged energy, having spit-fire conversations that sound like arguments but seem friendly enough, about shit like tax returns, 401ks, and the best brand of grout for regrouting bathroom tiles.</p><p>Leon and Richie mostly watch from the sidelines and talk about Leon's big plans to take Broadway by storm — his new goal now that he has allegedly become disillusioned with Hollywood life after watching some Q&amp;A with a jaded, ostracised actor from the 90s. Richie is secretly hoping for him to move on to stand-up comedy because Chris would lose her shit and it would be hilarious. </p><p>"You know, he isn't what I envisioned for you," Chris says to Richie, with Eddie and Leon out of earshot for once. They're at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center and Leon has just dragged Eddie into the shop to get a coke, like the little shit doesn't have a part-time job and can afford to get his own.</p><p>"Eddie?" Richie asks.</p><p>"No, the demon that lives inside of you," she says wryly. "Yes, I'm talking about Eddie."</p><p>Richie looks down at the bed of pink and purple flowers they are standing over. If he knew anything about plants he might have something insightful to say about them. In the distance there is an information plaque which would probably tell him what type of flower they are, but then he would have to admit to Chris that he doesn’t already know. </p><p>She knows about these things, about nature and life, she has spent the last twenty years learning how to take care of herself. She grows vegetables in her backyard and she takes Leon to help out at a community allotment every week. They have pots of herbs on the windowsill in their yellow kitchen, and she will not let Leon leave home without teaching him to respect the earth, the food on his table and the people who put it there.</p><p>He feels inept in comparison. Like a baby bird that's fallen out of its nest.</p><p>"What did you envision for me?" he asks and looks over at her. "Weird that you envisioned anything at all. Why are you so obsessed with me?"</p><p>"I always thought you'd end up with someone that calms you down," she says and walks in the direction of the pond at the end of the path. "Eddie does the opposite. He riles you up constantly. It's like pigtail pulling but between adults who are already in a committed relationship. It's fucking weird, man."</p><p>"I like pulling his pigtails." Richie winks at her.</p><p>"I don't need to know that. Don't ever tell me about your sex life, I will end you."</p><p>He snorts. Then he says, "He does calm me down. Maybe not my blood pressure, but he gives me somewhere to focus all my bullshit. Like… he streamlines me. I’m better around him."</p><p>"Huh." She seems to consider that. "I don't think I get you two."</p><p>"You don't like him?"</p><p>"Of course I like him," she snaps, like she is angry at the mere suggestion. "I like him more than I like you."</p><p>Richie shrugs. "So do I."</p><p>She smacks him on the arm, hard enough to hurt. "Get some self-esteem, dickhead."</p><p>"Believe me, I'm trying. It's hard work."</p><p>As they stand and stare into the pond, watching the lily pads float on the surface, the sun beats down on them. It's warm in Austin this week but not unpleasantly so, 75 degrees weather that feels hotter in the midday sun. Nothing like the biting winters they grew up with in Maine, or the bone-deep cold in Chicago. He can see why she chose to move here. Wonders if it means anything that they both decided to leave the cold behind.</p><p>"You love him," she says. It isn't a question. "I would argue he likes you more than he likes himself, too.”</p><p>"Jeez, I hope that's not true," he laughs. "I thought he had better taste than that."</p><p>"Rich." Her voice is stern. "Stop it. I will push you into the pond."</p><p>"You're couldn't." He balances himself precariously on the manmade edge of the pond, sandy bricks underneath his feet. "You're too short."</p><p>"You barely have three inches on me," Chris says darkly. "And I can guarantee I have more muscle mass."</p><p>She isn't wrong. Although Richie has been forcing himself to exercise at least once a week, going so far as to hire a personal trainer who he then ghosted after a month, Chris does kickboxing and has lifted weights for over a decade.</p><p>And yet he can't help himself. He waggles her eyebrows at him and says, "I think you'll find I have seven inches on you, kiddo. I dare you."</p><p>And Chris, much like Richie, has never said no to a dare. She pushes him into the murky pond.</p><p>He comes up sputtering and laughing, a lily pad clinging to his arm. In the distance, Eddie and Leon are coming back from their beverage hunt and he can see Eddie's incensed frown from all the way over there.</p><p>"Can't take you anywhere," Chris grunts and helps him out of the pond. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>New Year’s Eve</b>
</p><p>Richie finds Bev on the balcony, a joint between her lips and worried crease between her eyebrows. The air is mild, something around 50 degrees, and the coast brings no breeze tonight. When he shuts the door behind him, the music inside is muffled so they can barely make out the lyrics to <em> Step by Step. </em></p><p>He sidles up to her and leans against the railing, overlooking the courtyard below. The central water feature sparkles with the glow of street lamps surrounding it. In the distant horizon, fireworks are lighting up the night sky, somewhere above Elysian Park. They're something like forty-five minutes premature, but it's the new year somewhere in the world.</p><p>"Alright, Miss Marsh?" He plucks the joint from Bev's lips and takes an indulgent toke. </p><p>"Yeah, fine.” With a sigh, she leans her head on Richie's shoulder and wraps an arm around him.</p><p>Her eyelids are heavy, the corners of her lips downturned. She is bundled up in one of Ben's jumpers, a few sizes too big but somehow it looks effortlessly cool on her. She has long since taken off her heels and her bare feet must be freezing on the tiled balcony floor, but Beverly Marsh has never been one to complain.</p><p>"You look too miserable for a party," Richie says. He puts his arm around her shoulder and tucks her against his side, then passes the joint back to her.</p><p>She takes it and laughs dryly. "Thanks, honey, you always know just what to say."</p><p>"Just saying it how I see it."</p><p>He drops a kiss to the crown of her head. They've always been touchy, the Losers, but particularly him and Bev, back when they were teenagers and they used to push and pull at each other, looking for a connection they could not articulate. Richie thinks that maybe back then, he felt safer to touch than other boys. Bev must have known instinctively that he didn't want her in any way she might fear, must have understood his straight posturing for what it was. </p><p>"I'm just reflecting," she tells him.</p><p>He does a little mock gasp and says, "Oh<em> no </em>, we don't do that in this household. Nothing good can come of it."</p><p>"Yeah, I know." Bev nudges him with her elbow. "That's why it took you and Eddie over a year to get anywhere."</p><p>His laugh echoes around the courtyard.</p><p>"Can't argue with that," he says. "So tell me about this ‘reflection’ you speak of.. What's troubling you, chiquitita?"</p><p>"Life," she says vaguely. "Ben. My brain. Shit my therapist tells me."</p><p>He squeezes her gently and stays quiet to give her the space to speak.</p><p>She brings the joint to her lips and the cherry glimmers as she takes a drag. Smoke curls up, up, up against the backdrop of the dark night sky, disturbed only by a red and gold burst of fireworks on the horizon.</p><p>"Sometimes I just want to eat him. Ben, I mean."</p><p>Richie bites down on a shitty joke in response, something that he has been trying to get better at these past few months. Remembering that they aren't always necessary.</p><p>"Like he might leave if I don't. I want to swallow him whole." She takes another drag, then passes the joint back to Richie. "Therapy is really fucking me up. In a good way, I think. Dialectical behaviour therapy, for the past two months. It's intense."</p><p>"Never heard of it," Richie admits. "Sometimes getting a little fucked up by mental health professionals is the only way forward."</p><p>Not that he would know. He is still dragging his feet about therapy, much to everyone's despair.</p><p>"Not that you would know," Bev says, echoing his own <em> reflection. </em>"It focuses on these four core principles. Mindfulness, distress tolerance, emotional regulation and— uh, interpersonal skills. Communication and shit. It's weird. It's... yeah, it's good."</p><p>Richie nods wordlessly, takes a few tokes and thinks, quietly, <em> that sounds like hell. </em></p><p>"It's like tearing down a house and laying a new foundation." Her hand is trembling where it hangs over the railing of the balcony. He wants to take it, but doesn't want to stifle her. "You'd think the tearing down would be the easy part, right?"</p><p>"Yeah," he hums. "But let me guess: It's not."</p><p>"No, it's not. It fucking sucks." She looks up at him with a wry smile. "Turns out trauma is one hell of a solid mortar. I've only just managed to break through the roof."</p><p>He says, "Well, that's progress. The roof is pretty tough." Trying to keep up with her metaphor.</p><p>Bev's voice is quiet when she says, "Sometimes I get so angry at Ben I can't breathe."</p><p>Richie wants to reassure her, would like to say that conflict is a natural part of a relationship, but his frame of reference is extremely limited and he has never been angry at Eddie, not really. They argue constantly, about anything from the ending of <em> The Sopranos </em> to the way Richie folds his shirts, but to this day he can count the number of real, hurtful fights they've had over the course of their relationship on one hand.</p><p>And it's still early days, of course, and the concept of a honeymoon phase has been explained to Richie by every single one of his friends but, perhaps naively, Richie thinks that what he feels for Eddie is not a spark, it's a wildfire, and it will burn him up before it ever extinguishes. </p><p>To her he says, "It's okay, dude, you know Ben loves you for who you are," and brings his hand to her back for what is hopefully a comforting touch. Things like that become blurry when he is a little high.</p><p>"I'm not scared of him," she tells him and stubs out the joint with an angry huff.</p><p>He shrugs. "I didn't think you were."</p><p>"But maybe he should be scared of me?"</p><p>Richie pulls back so he can look at her. Her red hair burns in the low light of night. He says, "Bev, my love, woman of my dreams, you are one of the kindest people I know."</p><p>Something shifts within her, then, and she bristles like an angry cat. "No," she snaps. "I don't want to be. I don't <em> have </em>to be."</p><p>"Kind?" he asks, blinking in confusion. From inside of his apartment, Miley Cyrus' <em> Party In The U.S.A. </em> drifts out into the night, adding a sheer layer of surrealism to the conversation.</p><p>She nods and curls her fingers in the front of her hoodie, like she wants to rip it off. Her knuckles are white. </p><p>"You don't have to be anything," he says and puts a tentative hand on the railing near her, as a peace offering. "I'm not trying to constrain you. If you want to be awful and mean and shave your head then be my guest, I'll love you regardless."</p><p>The furrow of her brows softens marginally. "I don't want to shave my head," she says. "But I want to be awful. I think I already am, a little bit."</p><p>"Okay," Richie says. "That's fine. We all are. You know, <em> a little bit. </em>"</p><p>"I'm just working through some shit." Bev lets go of the hoodie and her hand comes to rest on top of Richie's. "And I just feel insane about Ben. He makes me feel like I am drinking lava and it tastes like the inside of a Strawberry Splash Gusher. Being in love is fucking stupid."</p><p>"Sometimes when Eddie looks at me I think I'm going to implode," says Richie.</p><p>"Yeah," says Bev.</p><p>They smile at each other, two miserable idiots in love. </p><p>"But," he starts. "I think maybe Eddie feels insane about me, too. This morning I did a little striptease as a joke and he said that if he didn't suck my dick right then and there he would die."</p><p>Bev covers her face with one hand and giggles. Breathlessly, she says, "Yeah, that is a freak move."</p><p>"And Ben kept your yearbook signature in his wallet for twenty-seven years. Even when he forgot who you were." Richie steps closer and reaches out for her, moving slowly so she has the chance to back out. When she doesn't, he wraps her up into a tight hug. "I think he probably wants to eat you, too."</p><p>She slumps against him and buries her face in his chest. Her voice is muffled when she says, "Oh, you bet he does."</p><p>He can feel her laugh all along his body, shaking.</p><p>Half an hour later, the Losers gather on the balcony with flutes of expensive champagne, a flute of OJ for Richie, and when the timer on Mike's digital watch beeps at midnight, Eddie is already kissing Richie, arms wrapped around him and one hand on his ass. When they separate and Eddie wrangles him, with very little effort, into a tight hug, Richie looks to his left and catches Bev's eye.</p><p>She is similarly entangled with Ben, her cheek pressed to his chest. Ben has put some weight on over the course of the past year and a half, in a healthy way, the kind of weight that seems to support his very foundation. He glows with it, looking better than he ever has before. He has his face buried in Bev's hair and he looks endlessly fond. </p><p>Richie winks at Bev and she sticks her tongue out at him.</p><p>Late that night, Richie watches his very drunk boyfriend slow dance with a very drunk Mike to an acoustic cover of <em> Toxic, </em>while he sits on the sofa, Bev's legs in his lap and Bill snoring softly on his shoulder. Ben, bless him, is trying to tidy up the mess they've created around the apartment with no help from anyone else. They've all made an attempt to get him to stop, but Ben has a chronic fear of imposing and he will not be deterred. </p><p>There is a disco light in the corner of the living room casting globes of pink and blue and orange light on the walls and ceilings, and the world around them is quiet save for the music, Bill's snores, and the occasional whistle-bang of fireworks going off in the far distance.</p><p>Richie watches as Mike says something to Eddie, so quiet that he can't hear it from the couch, and he feels Eddie's laughter deep inside his chest. When Eddie looks at him, Richie blows him a kiss and Eddie honest-to-god blushes.</p><p>He tucks Eddie into bed not long after and he feels safe in the knowledge that Bev and Ben are happily curled up on the pull out sofa bed next door, and that Mike and Bill are making out in the back of an Uber somewhere along CA-110. He takes off his glasses and slides under the covers. As he drapes himself along Eddie's back he thinks, <em> this is worth the nightmares, </em>and he presses a kiss to the shell of Eddie’s ear. </p><p> </p><p>In spring of that year, William Denbrough publishes another book. The dedication, if Richie cared to read it, stands in delicate letters on the white page:</p><p>
  <em> To the Losers. To Stan. </em>
</p><p>This one has a better ending.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That's it, folks! Thank you so much for reading and commenting along the way :') </p><p>I've already posted the first part of my next fic 'you were a kindness (when i was a stranger)'. It's about Richie and Eddie having a one night stand and getting snowed in together, so if that sounds like it might be up your alley please check it out! </p><p>Come hang out with me on Twitter @reesefinchs if you are so inclined.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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